LIBRARY 

or--  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  OF 
THE    FAMILY  OF   REV.   DR.   GEORGE    MOOAR 

Class 


site, 


r&k 


POEMS 


BY 


ALBERT    SUTLIPFE 


OF  THE 

{    UNIVERSITY   ) 

OF 


BOSTON  AND  CAMBRIDGE: 
JAMES    MUNROE    AND    COMPANY 

MDCCCLIX. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

Thurston,    Miles,    and   Pritchett, 
PRIN  TEBS  . 


56? 


CONTENTS. 


DEDICATION  —  TO   J.  S.  B.               .        .  7 

RETROSPECTION     ......  15 

THE  VESTAL      ......  20 

FROM  AN  UNFINISHED  POEM         .        .        .24 

GOOD  NIGHT 30 

FOUR  STANZAS 33 

ABROAD  AND  AT  HOME      ....  35 

JUNE 43 

THE  CLOUD  WITH  THE  SILVER  LINING      .  46 
AN  AUTUMN  BALLAD     .        .        .        .        .49 

To  ONE  AFAR 53 

SONNET 58 

THE  DEAD  TASSO 59 

LILLA 62 

OCTOBER 65 

IN  THE  WOODS      ......  69 

THE  GREEK  LOVER 74 

THAT  NIGHT 79 


076 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGS 

LINES 83 

THE  CHURCH         ......     85 

OUR  SISTER 88 

INDIAN  SUMMER    ......     92 

A  TRUCE  TO  HOPE 94 

MOTHER  EARTH 99 

I  Woo  THEE,  SPRING  ....  104 
A  MIDNIGHT  FANTASY  ....  107 
FRAGMENT.  —  A  PICTURE  .  .  .110 

A  POET'S  THOUGHT 112 

To  D.  S 113 

PRAISE  AND  DISPRAISE         ....  120 

MAT  NOON 124 

SEPTEMBER 127 

DECEMBER 128 

A  WINTER  BALLAD 131 

A  HOME  SONG 134 

CHANGED 137 

LOVE 141 

A  VALEDICTION 142 


POEMS 


DEDICATION. 

TO    J.    S.    B. 

THE  reapers  to  the  fields  of  wheat 

And  to  the  fields  of  barley, 
From  daylight  reddening  in  the  blue 

Till  vesper  dews  are  pearly ; 

The  humming  bird  to  lilies  deep 

Spotted  and  gold  all  over ; 
The  bee  unto  his  honied  sleep 

Close-shaded  by  the  clover ; 

The  grand  ones  to  the  fields  of  thought, 
The  sapphire  skies  above  them, 


DEDICATION. 

The  golden  air  with  odors  fraught, 
And  flowers  and  clouds  to  love  them  ; 

Firm-cinctured  for  the  harvest  spoil 
They  reap  rich  sheaves  and  bind  them 

Before  them  waves  a  life  of  toil, 
Their  great  deeds  lie  behind  them. 

But  I,  who  long  for  calmer  skies, 
Sweet  airs  and  days  serener, 

Across  the  harvest  fields  of  thought 
Go  but  a  rustic  gleaner. 

Before  me  lie  the  upland  slopes, 

A  stubborn  glebe  for  labor, 
With  clouds  that  never  flush  with  hopes, 

And  eves  too  sad  for  tabor. 

The  leaden  skies  above  me  pine 

More  dark  than  sunshine  knoAving  ; 

The  afflatus  from  the  realm  divine 
Is  but  the  storm-wind  blowing. 


DEDICATION.  9 

And  yet  I  bring  my  sheaf  of  song 

From  fields  of  toil  and  sorrow ; 
Some  tares,  with  scattering  grains  of  wheat 

And  promise  of  to-morrow. 

Perchance  a  little  specious  thought 

Imagination-gilded ; 
A  little  fabric,  word-inwrought, 

Starlit,  and  fancy-builded. 

A  little  echo  faint  and  low 

Caught  where  the  winds  were  straying ; 
A  little  of  the  sunset  glow 

Upon  the  far  clouds  playing. 

A  little  landscape  lowly  laid, 

By  Naiad  brooks  run  over, 
Bee-haunted  in  the  linden  shade 

Among  the  snowy  clover. 

I  mind  me  of  the  time  we  walked 
Beside  the  sea  together  ; 

O         '  ' 

*1 


10  DEDICATION. 

A  pleasant  reach  of  sandy  beach, 
And  azure  was  the  weather. 

Before  our  feet  ,in  glimmering  lines 
Curved  in  the  waves  white-crested, 

And  over  us  the  broad  blue  sky 
Like  God's  great  presence  rested. 

We  walked,  and  talked  of  sunny  things, 

Of  times  before  and  after, 
And  still  the  deep  sea's  voice  rose  up 

And  mingled  with  our  laughter. 

And  whyles  we  conned  the  pleasant  rhymes 

With  ripple  like  the  water, 
All  silver-voiced  like  waves  in  caves 

Or  Nereus'  fair-haired  daughter, 

The  far  ships  seemed  to  beckon  us 
With  silent  speech  and  gesture, 

Thrilling  with  thoughts  of  odorous  climes, 
Sweet  tongues,  and  alien  vesture. 


DEDICATION.  11 

Or  where  Nahant's  deep-searching  rocks 

Go  down  into  the  ocean, 
Storm-beaten  on  their  foreheads  bare 

Sea-vexed  with  ceaseless  motion. 

How  broad  upon  that  sweet  June  day 
That  landscape  from  the  mountain  ! 

The  hazy  blue  sea  on  its  edge  ; 

Nearer,  wood,  stream,  and  fountain. 

The  quiet  villages  in  peace 

Among  the  round  hills  lying, 
With  skyward  spires  ;  and  up  above 

The  pure  cloud-angels  flying. 

Or  erst  we  trod  the  city's  streets, 

Jostled  by  wealth  and  fashion, 
Perusing  foreheads  worn  with  care, 

And  eyes  aglow  with  passion. 

And  still  from  sky,  and  wood,  and  hill, 
And  earnest  human  faces, 


12  DEDICATION. 

The  Sphinx  looked  on  us  calm  and  still 
As  from  its  desert  places, 

And  gave  its  riddle  of  the  earth, 

Its  mystery  of  heaven  ; 
I  think  we  have  not  solved  it  yet ; 

God  grant  we  be  forgiven. 

But  now  great  distance  lies  between  — 
Steep  mountain,  lake,  and  river ; 

The  free  waves  flow,  the  free  winds  blow, 
Forever  and  forever. 

The  prairie  oceans  round  me  swell, 
Wind-swept  and  never  ending, 

Long  frost-browned  reaches  like  the  sea 
Ascending  and  descending. 

A  dark  uneasy  river  comes 

With  ceaseless  voice  upswelling ; 

Long  sunless  days  and  starless  nights 
It  rolleth  past  my  dwelling. 


DEDICATION.  13 

Yet  o'er  the  distance  like  a  waste 

My  weary  glances  turning, 
Discern  through  all  the  gathering  mist 

Thy  friendly  watch-fires  burning. 

I  come  within  thy  fireside  gleam, 

I  lay  my  task  before  thee  ; 
We  tell  beneath  its  cheering  beam 

Some  old  familiar  story, 

And  then  we  part ;  again  there  lie 

These  long-drawn  leagues  between  us  ; 

Yet  have  we  met ;  and  scarce  the  stars, 
The  keen-eyed  stars  have  seen  us. 


POEMS. 


RETROSPECTION, 

BUT  half  the  sky  is  filled  with  stars, 
And  half  the  sky  with  mist ; 

No  moon  to  light  the  waste  of  snows ; 

But  toward  the  west  Orion  glows, 

And  underneath,  the  east  wind  blows 
The  clouds  where  it  doth  list. 

The  mist  creeps  swiftly  on  and  on, 

The  stars  fade  one  by  one  ; 
Do  hopes  die  thus  ?  it  cannot  be ; 


16  RETROSPECTION. 

There  goes  Orion's  sword-belt,  see  ! 
And  now  no  light  is  left  to  me 
But  Memory  alone. 

And  can  we  dream  when  stars  are  dead  ? 

I  ween  it  may  be  so  ; 

We  search  the  old  time  through  and  through ; 
We  think  of  what  w^e  used  to  do  ; 
We  light  our  altar-fires  anew, 

With  half  the  olden  glow. 

Bring  out  the  pictures  of  the  Past, 

That  we  may  look  them  o'er  ; 
Here  passed  my  childhood,  here  between 
These  high-browed  mountains ;  here  the  green 
Sloped  riverward ;  a  pleasant  scene, 

Star-lighted  now  once  more. 

There,  crept  my  childhood  on  to  youth  ; 

Here,  was  a  space  for  tears  ; 
Then,  'twas  one  tear  that  hid  the  sun, 
But  now  it  is  —  ah  !  many  a  one, 


RETROSPECTION.  17 

With  floating  mists  or  shadows  dun 
Between  me  and  the  spheres. 

We  dreamed  the  day  out  till  the  stars, 

The  stars  out  till  the  day ; 
We  said,  "  Let  come  the  darker  time; 
The  hours  shall  pass  like  pleasant  rhyme  ; " 
We  thought  the  nights  all  morning  prime, 

The  stars  would  shine  alway. 

We  tire  of  looking  o'er  the  Past  ; 

Our  altar-fires  grow  dim  ; 
We  see  the  snow-clouds  gathering  cold ; 
The  deadlier  mists  around  us  fold  ; 
Ah  !  but  our  hearts  are  over-bold  ; 

How  dense  the  shadows  swim. 

We  look  above  and  look  around, 

The  shadows  touch  our  eyes  ; 
We  hear  through  hollow  distance  still 
The  moaning  wind  across  the  hill, 
The  fierce  gust  seeking,  seeking  still, 

And  winning  no  replies. 


18  RETROSPECTION. 

The  stars  are  out  and  memory  fades  ; 

Alas  !  what  may  be  done ! 
We  fold  our  robes  to  keep  aglow 
The  heart-fires,  flickering,  burning  low, 
Chilled  by  the  snow-cloud  and  the  snow, 

And  longing  for  the  sun. 

Behind  us,  like  a  place  of  tombs, 

The  Past  lies  sad  and  lone  ; 
Before  us,  dreamed-of,  hoped-for,  guessed, 
And  sloping  downward  unto  rest, 
Glooms  the  broad  Future,  all  unblest, 

Visioned,  but  still  unknown. 

Stand  up,  my  soul,  with  Hope  beside, 

And  search  the  sky  for  stars  ! 
It  may  be  that  the  storm  will  cease, 
And  from  the  glorious  starlit  East, 
Some  angel  voice  will  whisper  peace 
Down  through  thy  prison  bars. 

Look  out,  my  soul,  with  courage  high, 
Although  thou  be  but  one  ! 


RETROSPECTION.  19 

What  if  the  Norland,  blowing  bleak, 
Freeze  all  the  tears  upon  thy  cheek  ! 
Look  upward,  if  thou  canst  not  speak, 
And  think,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 


THE    VESTAL. 

MY  hope  was  skyward,  and  my  thoughts  were 

stars ; 

My  soul  the  fleckless  whiteness  of  a  cloud, 
That  past  the  round  head  of  Mount  Aventine, 
Goeth  to  southward  and  Sicilian  shores, 
Across  the  even  sea  ;  my  fair  desires, 
Brushed   with  fair-plumed  wings   and  ruffling 

speed, 
Heaven's  pearl  gates  swung  ajar ;  and  down  all 

deeps, 
And  up  all  heights,  sunned  by  Jove's  summer 

thought, 
Peered  my  chaste-sighted  vision. 

Lo,  the  change ! 
The  one  white  cloud  hath  darkened  to  a  storm. 


THE    VESTAL.  21 

Whose  ominous  thunders  burst  above  our  fane  ; 
My  thoughts  are  but  faint  glow-worms  in  the 

dark; 

My  hope  is  self-devoured  ;  my  unplumed  wings 
Trail   dimmed  and  useless ;    and  my  purblind 

thought 

Seeketh  the  olden  glimmer  all  in  vain. 
Hateful  the  bright  day  searching  through  my 

soul ; 

Hateful  the  eve  that  brings  the  amorous  star  ; 
Hateful  the  moonsheen  silvering  the  night, 
And  the  broad  Tiber  lapsing  to  the  sea, 
And  the  lone  wood  wail  'mong  the  piny  trees. 
The  morn,  the  eve,  the  day,  the  starred  night, 
Are  one  to  so  assoiled,  accursed  a  thing. 

Whence  came  this  love  that  knolleth  Hope's 

death-bell  ? 
That   comes   with   glare,    and   goeth    with    a 

gloom  — 

In  sunlight  born  and  fading  in  a  cloud  — 
Close  clinger  to  the  skirts  of  transient  joy  — 
Rare  banqueter,  that  spreads  life's  richest  feast  ? 

*2 


22  THE    VESTAL. 

Whence  came  lie  in  our  walks  by  glen  and  steep, 
When  the  full-blossomed  spring,  bedropt  with 

green, 
March-blown,  and  April-showered,  scented  with 

May, 

Ran  in  and  out  among  the  budding  vales  ? 
Or  when  blue  Summer,  trailing  her  white  clouds, 
And  blown  about  the  sunshine  of  her  locks 
With  southwest  winds  from  off  the  Tyrrhene 

sea, 
Warmed  the  deep-hearted  hills  ?     Or  when  the 

Fall, 
Gold-crowned  and  amber-locked,  swept  through 

the  woods, 

With  shining  fruitage  from  the  western  isles, 
Calling  from'steepy  hill  and  wind-swept  lea 
The  wandering  goats  to  fold  ?   We  saw  him  not ; 
Yet  spying  us  without  our  mail  of  proof, 
Roving  the  world  beyond  the  temple  gates, 
He  pierced  us  through  and  through,  and  brought 

me  down 
From  all  my  heights  of  purity  and  joy. 


THE    VESTAL.  23 

And  where  art  tliou  who  found' st  me  as  the 

cloud, 
And  left'st  me  as  the  poor  earth  drenched  with 

rain  ? 

Among  the  isles  of  Grecia,  or,  perchance, 
In  Cyprian  groves  among  the  willing  maids, 
Like  Bacchus  crowned,  like  Bacchus  leopard- 
drawn, 

Oblivious  of  the  woe  that  here  at  Eome 
Comes  with  the  darkness  of  a  shameful  grave 
Between  me  and  the  blessedness  of  life. 
Thou  art  afar  ;  but  here  I  send  to  thee 
The  bark  of  my  remembrance,  blown  with  sighs, 
And  freighted  with  —  alas  !  I  know  not  what  — 
Blessing  or  curse. 

But  I  go  to  my  death, 

The  great  fane  fadeth  from  me,  and  the  groves, 
Dimly  prophetic,  shade  me  nevermore. 


FROM  AN  UNFINISHED   POEM 

WE  slowly  climbed  the  mountain  road 

A  hazy  October  afternoon, 
The  beautiful  forests  flamed  and  glowed, 

The  air  was  sweeter  than  June . 

For  who  would  see,  said  he,  (my  friend) 
God's  wonder  and  glory,  should  go  with  me 

And  view,  at  sunset,  hill,  valley,  and  glen, 
With  a  back-ground  of  the  sea. 


We  stood  on  a  lofty  point  of  land 
And  watched  the  sun  set  in  the  sea, 

The  vales  grew  dark  on  either  hand 
While  high  in  the  light  stood  we. 


FROM    AN    UNFINISHED    POEM.  25 

The  lowermost  points  of  diamond  crag 

Went  out  like  tapers  one  by  one. 
Far  up  the  stream,  a  blood-red  line, 

Ran  down  to  the  setting  sun. 

A  single  ship,  all  golden  sailed, 

Flared  up  like  a  torch  at  the  mouth  of  the  bay, 
Then  growing  dimmer,  it  failed,  and  failed, 

And  faded  quite  away. 

The  wakening  owl  with  shrilly  whoop 
Called  out  the  echoes  from  the  dim  ; 

The  sun-gilt  eagle,  with  dizzying  swoop, 
Swept  down  to  the  mountain's  rim. 

The  cedarn  wood,  with  its  sunny  edge, 

And  the  night  in  its  branches  thick  and  deep, 

Brightened  awhile  the  granite  ledge, 
Grew  dimmer,  and  went  to  sleep. 

The  first  faint  lights  of  the  village  below 
Gleamed  slowly  out  on  the  plain  afar, 

And  high  above,  o'er  a  ripple  of  cloud, 
Came  forth  the  lover's  star. 


26  FROM    AN    UNFINISHED    POEM. 

Of  many  scenes  from  east  to  west 

I  have  never  seen  one  fairer  than  this ; 

The  hay,  the  harbor,  the  ships  at  rest 
In  the  sunset's  golden  kiss. 

The  city,  its  spires  and  turrets  ablaze  ; 

The  river  in  curves,  the  land  in  squares  ; 
The  day  into  twilight  with  holier  rays, 

Slow-fading,  unawares. 

The  hills  with  their  summits  like  crowns  of  gold, 
A  shadowy  drapery  around  their  feet ; 

The  sturdy  mountains  so  grand  and  old ; 
The  air  so  pure  and  sweet. 

"  God  scatters  his  wonders  near  and  far," 
He  said,  "  He  doth  neither  stint  nor  spare  ; 

The  few  see  God  in  the  flower  and  star, 
The  many  are  unaware." 

I  said,  "  This  eye  that  seeth  all 
It  is  no  blessing,  but  truly  a  bane  ; 

Go  sleep,  go  sleep,  with  thy  face  to  the  wall, 
Thy  bliss  is  only  a  pain. 


FROM    AN    UNFINISHED    POEM.  27 

"  There  are  the  sunset  glories  unfurled ; 

Here  is  the  landscape  at  thy  feet ; 
Go  rake  in  thy  rapture  the  muck  of  the  world, 

Go  get  thee  bread  to  eat. 

"  Thou  sawest  yon  city  one  flash  of  light, 

Its  buildings  all  of  precious  stones  ; 
What  was  beneath  but  crime  and  night, 

o       " 

But  death,  and  dead  men's  bones. 

"  For  she  that  wins  to  death  with  her  lips 
Now  leads  the  victim  in  her  bands  ; 

Young  famished  children  down  by  the  ships 
Die  with  uplifted  hands. 

"  The  rich  with  his  shining  chariot  wheels, 

O 

Rolls  up  to  his  palace  along  a  grand  street ; 
The  tattered  beggar  totters  and  reels, 
And  dies  at  his  very  feet. 

"  The  maid  with  her  star-like  jewels  and  eyes 
Looks  down  in  the  street  through  the  crystal 
pane ; 


28  FROM    AN    UNFINISHED    POEM. 

The  homeless  maiden,  with  wild  surprise, 
Returns  her  glance  again." 

"  I  would  not  be,"  he  answered,  "  that  one 
Who  looketh  upon  this  bright  world  so ; 

God  filleth  the  heavens  with  his  sun, 
With  a  hand-breadth  cloud  for  woe. 

"  This  glorious  world  is  broad  and  bright, 
Above  are  the  stars  and  below  the  flowers ; 

And  little  in  shadow,  and  much  in  light, 
Glide  the  swift-footed  hours. 

"  And  if  the  sunbeams  brightly  fall, 

Why  should  we  curse  the  air  we  breathe, 

Blowing  o'er  tombs  ;  and  tarnish  all 
With  the  dust  and  shadow  of  death ! 

"  For  if  we  trample  the  flowers  in  the  sod, 
And  pluck  the  stars  from  the  bright  blue  sky, 

We  cast  back  our  gifts  in  the  face  of  God ; 
It  were  better  far  to  die  !  " 


FROM    AN    UNFINISHED    POEM.  29 


We  slowly  descended  the  mountain  road ; 

High  in  the  heavens  sailed  the  moon  ; 
Along  by  our  feet  a  rivulet  flowed, 

The  winds  and  the  woods  were  in  tune. 

Lower  and  lower  unto  the  plain  ; 

The  woods  grew  dark  and  grim  and  still ; 
We  came  from  the  woods,  and  the  golden  rain 

Of  the  stars  fell  down  at  will. 

Past  the  village,  and  on  to  the  sea 

Where  the  city  was  sinking  to  darkness  and 

rest, 
And  the  traveled  ships  by  the  wave-worn  quay 

Swayed  up  and  down  abreast. 


GOOD    NIGHT. 

"  GOOD  day,"  I  said  to  thee,  what  early  time 

The  austral  winds,  from  out  their  torrid  rest, 
With  ruffling  speed,  and  wheels  of  music  chime, 
Drove   fast  and   far    their   white    cloud-steeds 

abreast 
Out  of  the  warm  south-west. 

Upon  thy  cheek  the  tinted  apple  blooms 
Shed  timid  glory  as  when  sunset  dies  ; 
And  far  behind  thee,  through  the  odorous  glooms, 
Flashed  maple  blossoms  ;    and  the  violet  eyes 
Looked  up  in  mild  surprise. 

Above  thee  bent  the  beautiful  blue  heaven ; 

Around  thee  swept  alternate  light  and  shade  ; 
Beyond  thee,  fair  the  greening  meads  did  lie  ; 
Behind  thee  stretched  a  deep  and  mossy  glade 

With  light,  like  pearl,  inlaid. 


GOOD    NIGHT.  31 

Anon,  "Good  eve,"  when,  o'er  the  dewy  woods, 
The  August  moon,  with  tenfold  glories  bright, 
Sought  out  the  forest  secrets,  and  the  floods 
Rolled  up  against  the  shore  broad  sheets  of  light, 
Too  fair  for  mortal  sight. 

How  moveless  all  the  landscape,  and  how  sweet 

The  golden  atmosphere  that  hung  above  ; 
The  fleecy  clouds,  neither  too  slow  nor  fleet, 
Seemed  with  a  calm  delight  ever  to  rove 
Above  the  sacred  grove. 

Far  down  the  cedarn  glades  we  saw  the  white, 

Still,  moonlight  lie  upon  the  forest  green, 
And  tangled  vines  ;  and  backward,  full  in  sight, 
The  church  and  village  homes  arow  were  seen 
With  ghostly  streets  between. 

And  now,  "  Good  night !  "  night  that  is  almost 
morn  ; 

Morn  of  the  morrow  thou  wilt  be  my  bride ; 
The  autumn  morning,  beauteous  and  forlorn, 
With  gold  and  crimson  over  and  beside 

Where  thou  shalt  walk,  my  pride. 


32  GOOD    NIGHT. 

There  is  no  moon  to-night,  but  far  away, 

O'er  sleepy  fields,  beside  one  shining  light, 
A  slender  tapering  cloud  of  steady  gray, 
The  old  church  spire  towereth  into  the  night, 
Just  fading  from  the  sight. 

How  calmly  blows  the  breeze  with  odors  sweet ; 

How  clearly  sound  the  distant  city  clocks  ; 
The  falling  leaves  drop  faint  like  spectral  feet ; 
And  hear  old  ocean,  with  its  muffled  shocks, 

Beat  on  the  time-worn  rocks. 

Good  night !    good  morn !  for  see  that  floating 
gleam 

Come  leading  on  the  morning's  fuller  rays  ; 
And  hear  that  first  faint  bird-trill  by  the  stream. 
O,  glorious  morn,  too  beautiful  for  praise  ! 

Morning  of  happier  days. 


FOUR    STANZAS. 

THE  days  grow  strange,  the  nights  grow  cool, 

The  bees  have  left  the  clover, 
The  maple  droppeth  in  the  pool 

Its  shady  summer  cover. 
All  day  the  swallows  southward  flit, 

All  night  the  wind  sighs  dreary, 
And  through  the  thin  veil  over  it 

The  moon  looks  wan  and  weary. 

The  crisp  leaves  rustle  on  the  path 

That  slopeth  to  the  meadow, 
The  oak  beside  the  lily  pond 

Drops  down  its  naked  shadow  ; 
The  bardd  boughs  at  eventide 

On  upland  fells  keep  swaying, 
And  doleful  sounds  through  valley  wide 

At  lonely  hours  are  straying. 
*3 


34  FOUR    STANZAS. 

Three  summer  months  to  warm  the  heart, 

And  then  the  chill  frosts  after ; 
Three  summer  moons  to  dream  of  love  — 

Some  ninety  days  for  laughter  ; 
And  then  the  south  doth  end'  its  reign  — 

The  north- winds  clip  our  dreaming — 
The  shadow  droppetli  once  again, 

To  end  Love's  empty  scheming. 

There  is  no  strip  of  summer  blue 

But  winter  clouds  blow  over ; 
There  is  no  inch  of  sodden  turf 

The  white  snow  shall  not  cover  ; 
No  pleasant  thing  but  has  its  end 

When  sunny  days  are  waning, 
No  note  of  music  for  the  lyre 

But  endlessly  complaining. 


ABROAD     AND     AT    HOME. 

SANK  the  red  sun  of  October,  rounder,  ruddier, 

fairer  grown, 
For  the  Indian  Summer  glories  round  its  setting 

grouped  and  thrown, 
And  the  Rhenish  watchful  castles,  crimson-dra- 

peried  every  one. 

Sank  behind  the  unseen  outline  of  the  mount 
ains  gold  and  blue, 

Leaving  such  a  sunlit  fullness  that  the  gazer 
scarcely  knew 

It  was  night-time ;  hills  and  valleys  pierced  and 
flooded  through  and  through. 

In  the  shadows  birds  were  singing,  in  the  braid 
ed  boughs  and  vines, 


36  ABROAD    AXD    AT    HOME. 

With  a  summer  sweetness  blended  with  an  au 
tumn  wail  of  winds ; 

Very  softly  swang  the  willows  ;  very  mournful 
sighed  the  pines. 

Past  the  vineyards  stood  the  windmills  with  their 
arms  in  quiet  crossed, 

Pausing  for  the  mountain  breezes,  mighty  labor 
ers  without  cost, 

Watching  on  the  hills  their  brethren  in  the  dis 
tance  dim  and  lost. 

Then   the   coarseness   of  the  herd-boy   at   the 

beauty  of  the  scene 
Changed,  as  distance  softens  music,  to  a  silence 

most  serene, 
And  he  walked  with  measured  paces,  and  an 

awed  and  gentle  mien. 

And  the  fisher  by  the  river  sang  a  distance- 
softened  song, 

Rolled  along  the  vintner's  hillsides,  sweetly  sad 
and  faintly  strong, 


ABROAD    AND    AT    HOME.  37 

Slowly  veering,  as  if  fearing  it  should  do  the 
silence  wrong. 

Then  the  peasant  dame  in  cottage,  and  the  lady 

fair  in  hall, 
Felt  the  selfsame  influence  falling  with  the  holy 

dews  that  fall ; 
And    they   prayed   to   Mary   Mother  —  gentle 

mother  hearing  all. 

So  the  golden  paled  to  ashen ;  and  above  the 

hills  afar, 
Peering  o'er  a  silver  cloud-edge,  like  a  queen  in 

shining  car, 
Gleamed   that   light   the   antique   poets   called 

love's  bright  peculiar  star. 

And  amid  that  tender  beauty  did  we  stand,  my 

love,  that  day, 
Looking  from  the  vine'd  Rhine  bank  o'er  the 

ocean  far  away 
To  our  land,   and  to  the  homestead,  seeming 

distant  as  Cathay. 


38  ABROAD    AND    AT    HOME. 

Then  we  thought,  "  This  land  is  lovely,  vine 
yard  slope  and  river  vale, 

Castled  crag  so  proudly  standing,  when  the  day 
begins  to  fail, 

And  the  sunset,  making  golden,  renders  true 
the  Arab  tale." 

And  I  said,   "  There  flow  between  us  and  the 

land  our  fathers  trod, 
Ocean  wastes  so  wild  and  dreary,  like  our  sins 

'twixt  us  and  God  ; 
But  the  sun  shines  calm   and   steady,   on  the 

river,  on  the  sod. 

"  Let  us  go  unto  the  sunset ;  we   will  plant  a 

slope  with  vines  ; 
They  shall  ripen   within  murmur  of  our  forest 

of  old  pines, 
Gathering  sweetness  from  our  sunshine,  getting 

substance  for  our  wines. 
• 

"  But  our  rivers  shall  be  brighter  with  the 
names  our  fathers  gave, 


ABROAD    AND    AT    HOME.  39 

And  the  forests  on  our  hill-sides  tall  shall  grow, 

and  green  shall  wave, 
And  the  twining  flowers  shall  cover  each   old 

mossy  stone  and  grave. 

"  We  have  seen  the  Alpine  mountains  going 

down  into  the  deeps, 
Soaring  up  into  the  heavens  where  is  God  who 

never  sleeps  — 
Sunlight  round  their  heads,"but  lower,  hanging 

mist  that  frowns  and  weeps. 

"  We  have  seen   the  Tiber  flowing,   'mid   its 

olives  to  the  sea, 
And  the  old  Rome  standing  by  it,  grand  in  its 

antiquity  — 
Crowned  and  crownless  ;  Lear  and  Caesar,  such 

another  may  not  be. 

"  And  the  noble  masters  hanging  ever  on  the 

walls  of  time, 
Every  century's  harvest  greater  till  their  fame 

is  in  its  prime, 


40  ABROAD    AXD    AT    HOME. 

When  the  world's  last  sun  is  setting,  and  its 
death-bell  'gins  to  chime. 

"  But  our  wanderings  may  be  ended  ;   let  the 

tall  Alps  now  give  place 
To  our  childhood's  humble  mountain,  with  the 

trout  brook  at  its  base, 
And  the  pond  with  sky  reflected,  or  the  stars 

for  nightly  grace." 

And  you  said,  "  Your  words  are  treading  where 
my  thoughts  have  gone  before, 

When  Ave  stood  amid  the  ruins  on  the  yellow 
Tiber's  shore, 

When  we  heard  the  thundering  torrents  down 
the  Alpine  gorges  roar. 

"  All  the  home-sounds  murmured  through  me, 

all  the  voices  of  the  hill 
Where  the  forest  standeth  grandly  when  the 

autumn  days  are  still, 
When  the  earth  keeps  golden  silence,  and  we 

wander  as  we  will." 


ABROAD    AND    AT    HOME.  41 

So  we  came  ;  the  sea  was  halcyon,  but  the  skies 

were  darker  grown ; 
Far  along  the  shivering  landscape,  fitfully  the 

leaves  were  blown  ; 
Southward  went  the  summer,  leaving  the  bright 

woodlands  all  alone. 

But   the   Lares   warmed  our   spirits   with   the 

hearthlight  never  dim, 
And  the  pine-tree  warders  murmured,  as  of  old, 

the  ancestral  hymn, 
Watching  in  the  midnight   vapors   moon   and 

stars  together  swim. 

And  our  former  life  moves  smoother  in  these 
latter  grooves  of  thought, — 

Wiser  for  the  old-world  lessons,  in  this  new  ex 
perience  taught, — 

Fairer  for  the  old-world  pictures,  in  our  memo 
ries  homeward  brought  ; 

For  we  see  the  visioned  vineyards  on  the  proudly 
castled  Rhine, 
4 


42  ABROAD    AND    AT    HOME. 

And  the  blue  Italian  heavens  spread  above  the 

Appenine, 
Making  all   our  day-dreams   golden  —  making 

half  our  life  divine. 


JUNE. 

THE  livelong  day,  this  summer  weather, 

Chased  by  the  zephyr  fleet, 
The  light  and  the  shadow  go  together 

Over  the  browning  wheat. 

And  after  the  staring  daytime  closes, 

Passionless,  white,  and  high, 
The  moon  peeps  into  the  elvish  roses, 

Out  of  her  native  sky. 

Under  the  hill  where  the  sun  shines  dimmer, 

Shrunk  from  the  eager  beam, 
The  brook  goes  on,  with  a  fitful  glimmer, 

And  music  for  a  dream. 


44  JUNE. 

Over  the  groves  and  moistened  meadows 

The  steady  gray  hawks  wing, 
And  down  below,  in  the  shifting  shadows, 

The  merry  small  birds  sing. 

My  tired  foot,  from  the  broad  sun  going, 

Presseth  the  curling  moss, 

And  my  eye  doth  see,  'mid  the  green  leaves 
showing, 

The  fair  clouds  flit  across. 

Give  me  a  bed,  with  a  brook-fall  nigh  me 

Pattering  low  and  sweet ; 
And  a  glimpse  of  the  Dryads  glancing  by  me, 

With  white  unbuskined  feet ; 

Give  me  a  brown-leaved  volume  olden, 

Quaint  with  its  antique  dream, 
Leading  the  full-flowered  fancies  golden, 

Back  in  a  swelling  stream  ; 

And  a  vision  of  ancient  groves  and  meadows, 
Where  Hyacinthus  nods, 


JUNE.  45 

And  fairly  gleam  through  the  mythic  shadows 
White  temples  of  the  gods. 

Then  shall  the  sky,  with  its  deep-blue  glory, 

Telling  of  Heavenly  clime, 
Mistily  blend  with  the  gentle  story 

Draperied  in  the  rhyme. 

So  shall  a  ray  of  sunshine  brighten 

Life's  ever  tiresome  steeps  ; 
And  a  purer  starlight  come  to  lighten 

My  dim  way  o'er  the  deeps. 


THE    CLOUD    WITH    THE    SIL 
VER    LINING. 

'Tis  many  a  weary  night  and  day, 
Since  thou  and  I  have  met ; 

Behind  the  circling  line  of  hills, 
Three  months  the  sun  hath  set : 

September  shrinking  from  the  frost,  — 

October  with  its  calms,  — 
November  swelling  in  the  woods 

Its  loud  and  angry  psalms. 

The  thrifty  farmer  long  ago 

Hath  housed  his  yellow  sheaves, 

And  in  the  nooks  of  stubble  fields 
Are  drifts  of  shrunken  leaves. 


THE    CLOUD    WITH    THE    SILVER    LINING.         47 

The  stream  hath  caught  a  wilder  tone, 

Filled  even  to  its  brims  — 
It  liketh  well,  through  chilly  woods, 

To  hear  December's  hymns. 

And  while  I  muse,  thy  memory 

Looks  in  upon  my  dreams, 
Like  golden  sunsets  flashing  back 

Athwart  a  breadth  of  streams. 

For  when  the  summer's  healthy  green 

Was  winning  sadder  grace, 
The  shadow  of  a  parting  lay 

Upon  thy  gentle  face  ; 

It  lay  upon  thy  gentle  face, 

It  lay  upon  my  heart ; 
And  broadened  o'er  the  fading  world, 

The  painter  Sorrow's  art. 

One  moment ;  then  thy  kindlier  cheer 

Was  like  that  holy  look, 
Dim  seen,  in  saintly  picture,  set 

In  some  cathedral  nook,  — 


48      THE    CLOUD    WITH    THE    SILVER    LINING, 

With  glances  like  a  hopeful  seer, 
Who  looketh  through  the  dim, 

Where  all  the  Future,  like  a  mist, 
Doth  seem  to  reel  and  swim. 

So,  while  the  ranges  of  cold  cloud, 
Fold  back  the  sunshine  white, 

The  summer  of  thy  smiles  and  words, 
Comes  filled  ^with  flowers  and  light. 

I  see  alone  the  silver  lines 
That  edge  the  cloudy  bars ; 

And,  in  the  alternating  gleams, 
The  sleek  leaves  drop  like  stars. 

I  hear  alone  the  lulling  wind, 

Tuning  its  roundelays 
To  murmurs  of  the  sprouting  May, 

And  June's  serener  praise. 


AN    AUTUMN    BALLAD 

Come,  say  the  Ave-Mary  prayer, 

And  chant  the  Miserere  ! 
The  autumn  frosts  have  chilled  the  air, 

The  winter  groweth  dreary  ! 
The  willow,  bending  o'er  the  tomb, 

Moans  dolefully  for  ever, — 
The  north-wind  bloweth  in  the  gloom, 

The  morning  cometh  never  ! 

Avaunt,  thou  memory,  springing  up 

Like  demon  bold  uprising ! 
Full  cold  and  bitter  is  our  cup, 

Nor  needeth  thine  apprising ! 
The  Future  glimmereth  in  the  dark  ; 

We  hear  the  billows  roaring  ; 


50  AN    AUTUMN    BALLAD. 

The  wind  beleaguereth  our  barque  ; 
The  storm  will  soon  be  pouring. 

Of  all  the  visions  of  our  youth, 

The  mind  is  disenchanted, 
When  manhood  sternly  paints  the  truth, 

The  soul  is  sadly  haunted  ; 
The  sun  is  sepulcherd  of  night ; 

The  flower  in  autumn  bendeth  ; 
Fair  fruitfulness  has  soonest  blight ; 

All  beauty  graveward  tendeth  ; 

The  world  is  petrified  at  heart, 

No  sympathy  is  welling  ; 
Each  plays  in  mime  his  soulless  part, 

Too  woful  'tis  for  telling. 
Then  say  the  Ave-Mary  prayer, 

And  chant  the  Miserere  I 
The  autumn  frosts  have  chilled  the  air,  — 

The  winter  groweth  dreary  ! 

Bethink  ye  that  He  made  ye  all ! 
The  same  God  bends  above  ye  — 


AN    AUTUMN    BALLAD.  51 

The  same  God  spreads  the  light  or  pall  — 
The  same  God  deigns  to  love  ye  ! 

The  wind  that  blows  the  cultured  lea, 
And  through  the  rich  man's  hedges, 

Sighs  round  the  poor  man  pleasantly, 
And  o'er  the  barren  ledges. 

The  rich  go  up  on  Fortune's  wheel, 

The  poor  are  crushed  beneath  it  ; 
Oppression  draws  the  bloody  steel, 

Alas,  when  will  she  sheathe  it ! 
Then  say  the  Ave-Mary  prayer, 

And  chant  the  Miserere  ! 
The  autumn  frosts  have  chilled  the  air,  — 

The  winter  groweth  dreary ! 

The  beldame  sitteth  at  her  loom, 

She  weepeth  'mid  the  weaving  ; 
The  orphan  lingers  at  the  tomb, 

He's  mickle  cause  for  grieving. 
The  dust  is  laid  with  dropping  tears  ; 

The  slave  cowers  'neath  the  scourging ; 
Each  day  is  filled  with  busy  fears, 

Like  restless  spirits  urging. 


52  AN    AUTUMN    BALLAD. 

O,  God,  within  the  Heaven  unseen, 

When  will  the  sun  be  shining ! 
Until  the  spring  time  cometh  green, 

Forgive  us  for  our  pining  ! 
Then  say  the  Ave-Mary  prayer, 

And  chant  the  Miserere  ! 
The  autumn  frosts  have  chilled  the  air, 

The  winter  groweth  dreary  ! 


TO    ONE    AFAR. 

I  HEAR  the  shrill  December  wind 

About  my  window  playing, 
And  past  the  backward-swinging  blind 

The  new  moon's  rays  come  straying ; 
Upon  a  thousand  hills  at  rest 

The  spotless  snows  are  gleaming, 
And  giving  back  from  earth's  chill  breast 

The  chillier  starlight  streaming. 

The  tremulous  eve-star  drops  its  ray 

Behind  the  hill-tops  lonely, 
With  smile,  which,  striving  to  be  gay, 

Goes  out  in  sadness  only  ; 
5 


54  TO    ONE    AFAR. 

As  if  it  fain,  before  farewell, 

Would  dream  some  fond  awaking, 

But  o'er  its  retrospection  swell 
Earth's  thousand  years  of  aching. 

I  would  not  think  of  tliee  to-night ! 

Another  time  were  fitter, 
When  airs  are  light,  and  skies  are  bright, 

And  memory  less  bitter ; 
When  summer  days  come  o'er  the  sea, 

And  heart  and  pulse  are  beating  ; 
When  memory  of  thy  voice  might  be 

The  harbinger  of  meeting. 

It  is  in  vain  !  thy  visioned  face 

Still  looks  from  out  the  distance, 
As  when,  in  the  retreating  days, 

Thou  would'st  have  given  assistance  ; 
With  earnest  eyes  that  would  have  smiled 

To  hide  the  pain  of  parting, 
And  grief  that  would  not  be  beguiled 

To  keep  the  tears  from  starting. 


TO    ONE    AFAR.  55 

I  cannot  deem  thou  thinkest  less 

On  him  the  world  hath  driven 
Afar  into  life's  wilderness, 

Perchance,  afar  from  Heaven  ; 
I  may  not  think  the  newer  claim, 

Of  later  friendship's  rearing, 
Should  make  his  seldom  spoken  name 

Fall  duller  on  thy  hearing. 

I  dare  not  dream  the  leagues  between, 

With  long  interposition, 
Should  make  his  face,  no  longer  seen, 

Fall  dimmer  on  thy  vision  ; 
But  through  the  waste  of  stricken  years, 

Thy  prayers  go  up  to  Heaven, 
For  one  of  Life's  poor  mariners, 

Athwart  the  wild  sea  driven. 

I  have  not  knelt  for  any  boon, 

My  poor,  proud  spirit  pawning, — 

And  if  the  world  gave  bitter  words, 
I  gave  it  only  scorning ; 


56 


TO    ONE    AFAR. 


Then,  if  my  grief  grew  passionate, 
None  looked  upon  my  weeping, 

Except  the  distant,  holy  stars, 
That  watch  the  earth  a-sleeping. 

I've  passed  among  the  silly  crowd, 

Nor  faltered  at  their  gazing  ; 
With  knee  unbent,  and  head  unbowed, 

Reckless  of  blame  or  praising. 
False  smiles  and  cheer  died  out  afar, 

The  broad  world  lay  before  me, 
But  like  a  distant,  cloudless  star, 

Thy  friendship  still  beamed  o'er  me. 

I  have  not  stopped,  with  smoothed  brow, 

At  wayside  shrines  for  praying ; 
Dark  thoughts  would  deepen  to  a  curse 

Each  pure  word  I  was  saying. 
I  scarce  recall  the  gentle  themes 

I  learned  in  childhood,  kneeling, 
Beside  that  one  whose  quiet  voice 

Comes  slowly  o'er  me  stealing. 


TO    ONE    AFAR.  57 

And  when  across  the  broad-sunned  plain, 

And  o'er  the  craggy  mountain, 
I  longed  to  cool  my  burning  brain 

At  some  Pierian  fountain, 
Foul  dust  had  choked  the  lilied  brim ; 

Dark  cypress,  o'er  them  leaning, 
Had  made  the  very  sunlight  dim, 

With  their  funereal  screening. 

Then  muse  not  at  the  weary  strain — 

I  fain  would  have  it  gladder ; 
But  should  I  strike  the  lyre  again, 

Its  notes  would  be  still  sadder. 
With  hopeful  flowers  it  should  be  wreathed, 

To  make  its  tones  be  gayer  ; 
Yet  every  note,  per  force,  it  breathed, 

Would  but  bemock  the  player. 

Now  dimmer  gleams  the  waste  of  snows 

Athwart  the  hills  they  lie  on  ; 
And  high  above  their  white  repose 

Beams  triple-starred  Orion. 


58  TO    ONE    AFAR. 

Good  night !  broad  Nature's  holy  calm 
Be  round  thy  spirit  closing  ; 

And  all  the  holy  joy  of  dreams 
Upon  thy  soul  reposing. 


SONNET. 

I  TELL  thee  a  new  sorrow  ;  for  the  old 
Last  night  expired,  and  cold  and  motionless 
And  white  as  moonshine,  laid  we  it  to  rest 
With  clasped  palms ;  and  a  huge  stone  we  rolled, 
For  fear  of  resurrection,  'gainst  the  place, 
And  bade  it  sleep.     And  when  the  East 
Crimsoned  with  this  day's  dawn,  I  set  a  feast 
Of  happy  thoughts,  and  gave  my  soul  to  taste ; 
And  she  did  eat,  singing  till  noontide  high, 
44  No  more,  no  more  of  woe ! "  But  thence  till  eve, 
Again  the  shade,  —  the  old  woe  new  did  grieve, 
And  made  me  this  new  sorrow  ;  and  the  sky 
Thickened  with  sadder  clouds  ;  yet  still  I  pray, 
•"  God  sencl  a  brighter  sun  to-morrow  dav." 


THE    DEAD    TASSO. 

AN  urn  for  holy  ashes,  Italy, 
A  shapely  obelisk,  whiter  than  the  sheen 
Of  one  pure  soul,  new  comer  to  the  stars  ; 
For  he  that  was  the  gateway  of  thy  dreams  — 
The  usher  of  thy  visions  grand  and  new  — 
Whose  fame  hath  domed  thee  like  a  sky  of  fire, 
Thy  golden-mouthed,  thy  silver-songful  one, 
Thy  should-be-crowned  lies  disencrowned  before 

thee. 

Oh,  for  thy  glory,  weeping  Italy  ! 
Ah,  for  thy  shame,  too,  land  of  glorious  dooms  ! 
Drop  down  thy  palms  from  thy  blue,  tearful  eyes, 
And  hie  thee  through  the  twilight  of  the  place, 
Seeking  a  tomb  fit  for  thy  lofty  dead  ! 


60  THE    DEAD    TASSO. 

Pile  high  the  altar  of  his  memory 
With  the  rich  incense  of  thy  fragrant  deeds  ; 
And  then,  go  weep  !    Tears  are  not  all  in  vain ! 
From   the  snow-crowns  high  up  bleak  Alpine 

steeps, 

That  blush  for  thee  each  crimson  eventide, 
To  the  far  indolence  of  that  extreme, 
Sang  to  by  syrens  the  sweet  summer  through, 
Send  the  deep  lyric  tones  of  thy  lament, 
Saddening  the  immemorial  Appenine, 
And  broadening  o'er  the  conscious  Tyrrhene  sea, 
Softlier,  sadlier,  towards  the  Afric  coast, 
Until,  o'erwearied  with  its  mournfulness, 
The  blue  waves  rock  it  to  a  sleep  of  death. 
For  who  shall  dare,  with  bold  hand  tremorless, 
The  lyre  of  Zion,  wherein  stately  plumes 
Surge  to  the  sea-swell  of  the  eager  rhyme, 
And  hope  to  take  again  his  scathless  hand  ? 
For  on  that  last,  cold,  dismal,  ruthless  dav, 
The  skyward  chariot  of  his  prophecy 
Dropt  down  no  prophet  robe. 

Thou,  too,  O  Rome  ! 
Fair-skied,  seven-hilled,  and  ever  Tiber-swept, 


THE    DEAD    TASSO.  61 

Huge-domed,  and  starry  with  ancestral  fame, 
Down  through  the  midnight  of  thy  cypresses 
Bow  low  the  locks  bright  with  the  Caesars' 

beams, 

And  weep  like  April  in  the  greening  woods 
Thy  penitential  grief.     Be  clad  in  robes 
Fit  for  a  princely  weeper,  and,  with  hands 
Slow  travelers  from  thy  mournful,  flooded  eyes. 
Down  to  thy  holy  task  on  bended  knee  ; 
Plait  thou  the  laurel  for  that  forehead  pale, 
Late  mocked  by  crown  of  thorns.     Then  let 

there  be 

The  glare  of  torches,  and  high  mummery ! 
The  long,  dull,  monkish  line  beneath  the  stars, 
Slack-drawn  round  corners  of  the  dusky  street ; 
The  chant  and  pageant  'neath  imperial  dome  ; 
Then  leave  his  urned  greatness  to  repose 
And  the  far  ages'  wonder,  ever  new. 


LILLA. 

ENAMORED,  o'er  my  Lilla's  cot, 

The  summer  wind  slides  lazily  ; 
Entranced,  o'er  her  gentle  lot, 

The  summer  sky  hangs  hazily. 
And  there  the  bee  hums  day  by  day, 

Housed  sweetly  in  the  blue-bell's  heart ; 
A  soft- voiced  streamlet  comes  that  way  — 

Its  low  song  tuned  with  winsome  art. 

Through  all  the  dreamy  day-time  there 
The  songful  birds  a-tuning  keep  ; 

All  drowsy  nights,  when  nights  are  fair, 
The  kind  stars  tend  her  holy  sleep  ; 


LILLA.  63 

No  wind  will  rudely  mar  her  rest ; 

The  grey  dawn  creeps  in  orient  skies — 
The  sleep  glides  gently  from  her  breast, 

And  careless  morn  un spheres  her  eyes. 

Her  footfall,  passing  in  the  dew, 

Awakes  the  birds  with  glad  good-morrow  ; 
The  flowers,  to  their  liege  lady  true, 

With  bright  eyes  smile  down  every  sorrow. 
For  be  it  or  the  dawn  or  eve, 

She  hath  not  any  thought  of  harm ; 
Good  spirits  will  not  let  her  grieve, 

And  Envy  wields  a  palsied  arm. 

Those  eyes,  awaking,  wake  for  me, — 

Those  thoughts,  a-sleeping,  dream  my  dreams, 
Her  smiling  haunts  me  ceaselessly, 

Until  my  o'er-fed  memory  teems 
With  shapely  visions  telling  well 

One  grand  conclusion  well-nigh  won, 
When  I  shall  hear  the  marriage  bell, 

And  when  our  separate  paths  be  done. 


04  LILLA. 

Then  sing,  thou  bird,  and  flow,  thou  stream, 

Glide  silverly  apast  her  cot ! 
Ye  winds  sigh  low  when  she  doth  dream, 

And,  blue  sky,  brighten  o'er  her  lot ! 
Our  separate  paths  shall  blissful  meet ; 

We  tread  no  death-ward  way  alone, 
For  death,  when  one,  were  passing  sweet, 

Our  Dreani-Land  guest,  a  joy  full-grown. 


OCTOBER. 

Now  the  middle  autumn  days, 
'Neath  a  blue  luxurious  sky, 

Over  woods  and  traveled  ways, 
With  their  golden  glories  lie. 

Now  the  oak  that  stands  afield, 

Royal  on  a  dais  brown, 
Shows  its  kingly  purple  shield 

Like  the  jewels  of  a  crown. 

In  the  late  September  rains 

Dark  the  night  and  dim  the  day ; 
Rings  of  mist  shut  in  the  plains, 

And  the  dawns  were  sad  and  gray. 
6 


66  OCTOBER. 

But  the  sunlight  drove  the  shades 

Over  hill  and  over  stream, 
Far  into  the  stillest  glades, 

Where  the  owlets  dream  and  dream. 

Where  the  blue  sky  stoopeth  down, 
It  hath  won  a  golden  edge, 

O'er  the  corn-fields  square  and  brown, 
With  their  lines  of  crimson  hedge. 

Plainly  heard,  the  pheasant's  drum 
Falletli  through  the  air  of  morn  ; 
Strikino-  all  the  echoes  dumb 

o 

Pipes  the  quail  beyond  the  corn. 

Silent  doth  the  river  run, 

Lapsing  to  the  silent  sea, 
Through  the  shadows,  through  the  sun, 

Neither  sadly  nor  in  glee ; 

Past  the  inlets,  past  the  bays, 
Dreaming  in  and  out  at  coves  ; 

Silver  in  the  meadow  ways  ; 
Golden  underneath  the  groves. 


OCTOBER.  67 

Children  whom  no  sorrow  grieves, 

Loiter  on  the  way  to  school, 
Watching  how  the  crimson  leaves 

Flutter  down  into  the  pool. 

Everything  the  softer  seems  ; 

Gentlier  doth  the  worldling  speak, 
Tarrying  in  the  land  of  dreams 

With  glad  eye  and  flushing  cheek. 

And  the  matron  far  in  years, 

Moveth  with  a  graver  grace, 
All  her  by-gone  hopes  and  fears 

Grouped  and  chastened  in  her  face. 

Oh,  ye  days,  I  may  not  speak 

All  your  teachings  unto  me ; 
Ye  are  balm  to  hearts  that  break, 

Oil  unto  the  troubled  sea. 

I  am  gliding  down  the  stream ; 

Ye  are  ranged  on  either  side  ; 
Can  I  pause  awhile  to  dream  ? 

Nay  !  I  cannot  stem  the  tide  ! 


68  OCTOBER. 

For  I  hear  a  noise  of  pain, 

Roar  of  winds  and  rush  of  waves, 
Dashing  o'er  a  sea  of  storms, 

Beating  on  a  shore  of  graves. 


IN    THE    WOODS. 

LET  us  away  in  the  summer  time ! 

Let  us  away  to  the  ancient  woods  ! 
There  the  oak  trees  brood  sublime, 

Over  the  shrinking  floods. 

There  the  mosses  are  moist  and  cool ; 

There  the  shades  are  dreamy  and  deep  ; 
And  the  tangled  vines  above  the  pool 

Hang  in  a  gentle  sleep. 

There  the  breeze,  the  balmy  breeze, 
Runs  in  the  shadow  up  and  down  ; 

The  murmur,  smothered  by  the  trees, 
Dies  half  way  from  the  town. 

*6 


70  IN    THE    WOODS. 

There  is  the  quiet  —  centuries  old, 

Only  broken  by  bee  and  bird, 
And  the  wind,  with  its  voices  manifold, 

Such  as  a  thousand  ages  have  heard. 

What  will  you  bring  along  with  you  ? 

Wordsworth  ?  Wordsworth  ?  that  is  well ! 
What  stains  the  leaf  here  ?  is  it  dew  ? 

He  was  a  wonder  in  wood  and  dell. 

Shelley  ?  ah,  you  know  my  mind  ; 

But  do  you  think  we  shall  go  so  deep  ? 
Tennyson's  music  ?  we  shall  find 

Bass  to  his  treble  will  make  you  weep. 

Keats  ?  oh,  yes,  with  his  Arcady  ; 

Sensuous  ;  sensual ;  as  you  please. 
What  gods  and  temples  and  nymphs  to  see, 

Lying  in  shadow  at  your  ease  ! 

Coleridge  ?  yes  !  no  ?  'tis  as  well  ! 

He  is  great  on  moonlit  eves ; 
We  will  read  his  Christabel 

When  the  moon  peeps  through  the  leaves. 


IN    THE    WOODS.  71 

Here  we  are  in  the  woods,  ma  belle, 

Over  shoe  in  the  yielding  moss  ; 
Are  not  these  flowers  asphodel  ? 

This  brook  Idalian  ?  leap  across  ! 

What  if  the  nymphs  have  left  the  glooms  ! 
Naiads,  plashing  the  ancient  brooks  ! 
Dryads,  glimmering  'mid  the  tombs. 
On  the  pages  of  books  ! 

Half  asleep  we  shall  see  them  all, — 

See  them  all  in  our  leafy  dream  ; 
Naiads,  pausing  within  our  call, 

Dripping  with  pearls  of  the  stream. 

Up  the  vistas  shrouded  with  vines, 

Through  the  laureled  and  long  arcades, 

Pillared  and  corniced,  the  glorious  shrines 
Lighten  the  holy  shades. 

Where  that  bridle-path  away 

Into  the  wildwood  seems  to  turn, 
There  is  Numa,  the  old  man  gray  ; 

That  is  Egeria  with  her  urn. 


72  IN    THE    WOODS. 

There  is  a  fountain  of  antique  stone, 
Fit  for  a  garden  of  regnant  Rome  — 

With  coucliant  lions  ;  a  lonely  swan 
Is  fluttering  in  the  foam. 

What  is  that  gleam  like  a  jewelled  crown  ? 

Cydnus,  over  a  bit  of  lea  ; 
And  the  queenly  Afric  sweeping  down, 

Down  and  away  to  sea. 

Those  are  bacchantes  under  the  trees, 
Filled  to  the  brim  with  mirth  and  wine  ; 

Pards,  and  thyrsi,  and  life  to  the  lees ; 
Golden  goblet,  and  juice  of  the  vine. 

And  where  the  shadow  deepest  lies, 

Those  are  fauns  ;  now  what  do  you  think  ! 

And  fool  Silenus,  with  star-like  eyes, 
Stooping  again  to  drink. 

And  here  are  the  fairies  of  England's  prime, 
• 

Dancing  the  greensward  into  rings  ; 

Who  would  have  thought  at  such  a  time 
We  should  see  such  things ; 


IN    THE    WOODS.  73 


Flitting  around  and  athwart  in  view, 
Measuring  out  the  summer  day, 

Here  as  I  sit  and  sing  to  you, 
The  measure  of  this  lay. 


THE    GREEK    LOVER. 

THE  sky  is  blue,  the  day  is  bland, 

The  waves  have  hushed  their  glee  ; 
No  leaflet  stirs  upon  the  land, 

No  ripple  on  the  sea. 
The  shoreward  pinnace  plies  the  oar, 

Unaided  by  a  breeze  ; 
The  cliffs,  with  dry  smile,  from  the  shore 

O'ergaze  the  idle  seas. 

My  galley  thrusts  her  brazen  prow 

Far  up  the  pebbly  strand, 
The  galley-slaves,  with  sleepy  tread, 

Pace  up  and  down  the  sand. 


THE    GREEK    LOVER.  75 

The  hot  sun  burnetli  close  and  low 

The  shrinking  tufts  of  palm, 
The  rounded  hills  slope  far  away 

In  universal  calm. 

The  fresh'ning  gale  that  drove  to  crisp 

The  waves  upon  the  bay, 
Hath  not  a  solitary  lisp 

To  help  me  on  my  way  : 
I  will  not  go  upon  the  sea 

To  wrestle  with  the  oar, 
While  sweet  eyes,  gently  turned  to  me, 

Give  blessed  heed  on  shore. 

The  Dryad  seeks  the  thicket  cool, 

Close-woven  with  the  vine, 
The  Naiads  in  the  plashy  pool 

With  pearly  whiteness  shine  ! 
The  groves  that  skirt  the  pillared  fane 

Scarce  tremble  to  the  hymn, 
From  white-armed  nymphs  and  pacing  priests, 

'Neath  arches  hushed  and  dim. 


76  THE    GREEK    LOVER. 

V 

O,  let  us  to  some  grotto  cool 

The  sunshine  never  seeks, 
Which  hateful  noon-day  never  warms 

Through  sultry  summer  weeks : 
And  while  slow  waves  slide  up  and  down 

Fair  Delos'  rim  of  sand, 
And  we  await  the  tardy  breeze 

To  bear  us  off  the  land, — 

O,  let  us  have  another  hour, 

Such  hours  as  love  hath  seen, 
While  parching  noontide  burneth  all 

The  woods  and  valleys  green. 
The  wilding  spray,  deep-shading  all, 

Our  bower-roof  shall  be, 
Where  love  may  see  till  even-fall 

Its  own  felicity. 

But  list !  the  aspen  stirs  its  leaves, 

The  palm-top  quivereth  ; 
Down  where  the  drooping  willow  grieves 

I  hear  the  breeze's  breath  ; 


THE    GREEK    LOVER.  77 

From  far,  o'er  Paros'  snowy  top, 

A  white  cloud,  floating  nigher, 
Bedims  the  brightness  of  the  noon  — 

This  sultry  noon  of  fire. 

The  fresh  wind  daslietli  up  the  spray 

Above  the  hot  gray  sand  ; 
The  gleaming  sails  are  on  the  bay, 

Swift  driving  to  the  land  ; 
The  galley-slaves  beside  the  sea 

Pace  swifter  to  and  fro, 
The  galley  floateth  glad  and  free, 

'Tis  time  for  me  to  go. 

I  cannot  leave  thee  here  alone, 

I  cannot  go  from  thee  : 
Through  sacred  groves  the  fair  winds  moan 

That  call  me  o'er  the  sea. 
O  come  !  for  soon  will  fade  the  day, 

The  night  doth  fall  anon  ; 
Love's  happy  star  shall  rule  the  way, 

Brave  south- winds  bear  us  on. 


78  THE    GREEK    LOVER. 

Balm-zephyrs,  from  each  fertile  isle, 

Shall  lull  us  into  rest ; 
The  quiet  moon,  with  fairer  smile, 

Shall  light  the  ocean's  breast. 
Hope  hath  not  thought  such  happiness 

Since  boyhood  dreams  were  mine, 
Love  hath  not  seen  such  store  of  bliss 

Since  Venus  'gan  to  shine. 

But  come  !  our  joy  may  not  delay  ! 

The  gale  is  blowing  keen  ; 
The  breaking  waves  are  white  with  spray 

My  vessel  waits  her  queen  ! 
Let  Delos  keep  its  pillared  fane  — 

Far-gleaming  through  the  grove  ! 
For  other,  purer  haunts  are  ours  — 

Sacred  to  hope  and  love. 


THAT    NIGHT. 

THE  seaward  sun  grew  broad  o'er  field  and  fen, 

The  waves  were  at  their  ebb  ; 
And  fateful  fingers  were  enweaving  then 

Our  sorrow's  dusky  web. 

We  knelt  together  on  the  smoothed  sand, 

The  ocean  at  our  feet ; 
And,  slowly  breeze-borne  o'er  the  hushing  land, 

We  heard  the  world's  heart  beat. 

The  broader  sun  sank  to  his  crimson  rest 

In  the  slow-heaving  waves  ; 
The  earth-worn  slept  upon  their  mother's  breast, 

As  still  as  in  their  graves. 


80  THAT    NIGHT. 

Yet  were  we  silent  till  the  moon  arose 

In  silver  and  in  gold, 
And  time,  swift  passing,  bade  our  lips  unclose, 

With  thoughts  that  must  be  told. 

Ours  were  not  words  of  soulless  commonplace 

That  thrust  the  lips  apart, 
But  such  as  light  the  inner  on  the  face, 

And  burn  into  the  heart. 

The  hoarded  passion  of  the  active  brain 

Came  rushing  in  our  speech  ; 
High  waves  of  soul,  storm-driven  o'er  the  main, 

Against  a  rocky  beach. 

Thou  saidest  things  deep-drawn  from  sorrow's 
lore, 

And  breathed  with  sorrow's  skill ; 
Thou  spakest  of  a  bliss  that  was  no  more, 

And  of  a  father's  will. 

And  of  a  duty,  that  to  do  and  dare, 
Led  on  by  separate  ways  ; 


THAT    NIGHT.  81 

Of  conscious  right  that  brightened  each  day's 

care 
Passing  all  human  praise. 

Yet  while  thy  lips  spake  these  false  words  of 
cheer, 

Thy  heart  in  honest  guise, 
True-heralded  by  many  a  silent  tear, 

Leapt  ever  to  thine  eyes. 

And  when  anon  those  tremulous  lips  did  fail 
With  words  they  could  not  speak, 

The  soul-fed  passion,  telling  its  own  tale, 
Flashed  red  upon  thy  cheek. 

And  I  the  while,  with  helpless  agony, 

And  intermitted  speech, 
As  in  a  dream,  just  heard  the  swelling  sea 

Calm-beating  on  the  beach* 

"  O  come,  O  come  ;"  the  ripples  seemed  to  say, 
"  Thy  slaves  are  wave  and  wind  ! " 

7* 


82  THAT    NIGHT. 

I  saw  the  sails  moon-lighted  down  the  bay, 
Their  white  wakes  trailed  behind  ; 

And  visions  rose  of  some  far  home  of  ease, 

With  Indian  breadths  of  lawn, 
And  on  the   roof  the   glistening   white   dove, 
Peace : 

I  turned,  and  thou  wast  gone. 

Then  smote  the  blinding  passion  on  my  face 
In  agony  and  tears  ; 

0  hapless  night !  that  like  a  burial  place, 
Looms  through  the  rift  of  years. 

1  see  thee  as  thou  art,  the  cloud,  the  woe, 

The  slow  swell  of  the  sea  ! 
The  queenly,  swan-winged  ships  that  come  and 

go, 
Far  off  eternally. 


LINES. 

THE  autumn  time  has  come  again, 
With  meanings  on  the  yellow  hills  ; 

The  skies  with  melancholy  rain 
Have  flooded  all  the  rills  ; 

The  heavens  are  hung  with  deathly  black  ; 

The  fields  lie  blank  and  desolate ; 
The  cold  winds  sweep  the  sunshine  back 

To  lands  of  palm  and  date. 

The  winter  comes  as  sure  as  death 

To  gloom  the  hours  and  clip  the  flowers,- 

To  wither  with  its  fatal  breath 
The  hopes  that  should  be  ours. 


84  LINES. 

Go  draw  your  curtains  close  and  warm, 

And  stir  your  hearth-fires  clear  and  bright ; 

Make  faint  the  roaring  of  the  storm  ; 
Fold  back  the  dusky  night. 

If  skies  are  dark,  relume  the  stars 

That  glimmer  in  the  heaven  of  home  ; 

Festoon  your  prison's  iron  bars 
With  flowers  of  fadeless  bloom. 

For  hearts  that  need  perpetual  sun 
To  keep  the  torch  of  love  alight, 

Are  sadder  than  these  shadows  dun, — 
Colder  than  winter's  night. 


THE    CHURCH. 

THE  antique  church,  —  it  shrinketh  back 

Ten  paces  from  the  green  ; 
The  emerald  neat  doth  clasp  its  feet, 

The  quiet  graves  between  ; 
Strong-buttressed  like  a  castle  old 

That  hath  its  fill  of  wars  ; 
By  night  and  day,  gold  eve  or  gray, 

It  points  the  place  of  stars. 

It  clasps  a  holy  silence  in, 

Six  days  of  every  seven, 
And  then  an  angel  organist 

Plays  interludes  of  heaven  ; 


86  THE    CHURCH. 

And  in  the  hushing  of  the  days, 

Throughout  the  after  week, 
Unto  the  golden-kissing  sun 

It  holds  its  dusky  cheek. 

A  bow-shot  distant  either  side, 

A  sister  chapel  stands, 
With  reverent  fear,  from  year  to  year, 

Upholding  prayerful  hands ; 
And  when,  in  nerveless  August  noons, 

The  clouds  are  like  a  fleece, 
It  seems  to  bear,  high  up  in  air, 

God's  snowy  flag  of  peace. 

Within,  the  moted  sunlight  falls 

On  carving  rich  and  brown, — 
Without,  far  off,  hums  on  and  on, 

The  knavery  of  the  town  ; 
Within,  the  light  makes  purely  dim 

The  niches  of  the  saints, — 
Without,  the  earth  doth  flout  the  heaven, 

With  immemorial  plaints. 


THE    CHURCH.  87 

A  porphyry  angel  o'er  the  font, 

Its  breadth  of  plume  extends  ; 
A  purple  light,  serenely  bright, 

Rests  on  it  as  it  bends  ; 
It  hath  no  haste  to  stir  its  wings, 

Dun  eve  or  dawning  pale, — 
Its  steady  shade,  like  sorrow  laid, 

Doth  cross  the  chancel  rail. 

Old  friendships  snap  ;  love's  golden  bowl 

Lies  shattered  in  my  hold  ; 
Yet  still  God's  granite  watchman  thrills 

The  chords  that  thrilled  of  old, 
And  still  may  its  evangel  be, 

Through  endless  waning  moons, 
While  yet  its  tell-tale  brazen  face 

Clangs  out  its  hourly  tunes. 


OUR    SISTER. 

THEY  have  buried  her  out  of  sight, 
Heaping  the  earth  above  her  head, 

And  they  let  no  glimmer  of  light 
Cheerfully  in  to  see  her  bed  ; 

Sad  shall  we  be  when  the  summer  blows, 

Sadder  still  when  the  summer  goes, 

Lone  as  death  in  the  sober  fall, 

And  the  winter  colder  and  darker  than  all. 

Green  the  May  hills  that  we  cannot  see, 
Hidden  away  by  the  mist  and  rain, — 

Hidden  by  tears,  that  as  fountains  free 
Pour  them  into  life's  restless  main. 


OUR    SISTER.  89 

Mother,  what  dost  thou  gazing  away 
Toward  a  mound  of  senseless  clay  ? 
Earth  hath  the  graves,  but  soul  hath  the  wings, 
Soaring  upward  to  better  things. 

Brother,  a  mist  is  over  the  hills ! 

Brother,  a  mist  is  over  thine  eyes, 
Damper  and  dimmer  than  that  which  fills 

Marshy  vales  at  the  faint  sunrise  ; 
What  didst  thou  see  when  looking  last 

o 

Into  that  tomb  as  the  rain  fell  fast  ? 

Hope  should  have  shown  thee  a  vista  bright, 

Opening  up  to  the  gates  of  light. 

Sister,  the  clouds  are  trailing  low, 

But  the  sunshine  chases  the  cloud ! 
Then  we  will  see  how  the  flowers  grow, 
Where  she  sleeps  in  her  quiet  shroud ; 
Dost  thou  think  the  soul-home  far, 
Stepping  upward  from  star  to  star, — 
The  way  alight  with  the  angel  wings, 
The  air  all  full  of  their  murmurings  ? 
8 


90  OUR    SISTER. 

Green  shall  the  grass  that  is  over  her  be 

When  the  summer  is  flush  and  long, 
Gentle  winds  from  the  distant  sea 

Shall  bring  her  the  seashelFs  faintest  song  ; 
Voices  from  sea,  and  woods,  and  caves, 
These  are  the  fittest  sounds  for  graves  ; 
Songs  that  linger  'neath  greenwood  eaves — 
Dreams  that  the  Ocean-spirit  weaves. 

All  the  noise  of  men  shall  be 

Far  away  in  the  dusty  street, 
But  timid  echoes  here  shall  flee, 

And  here  shall  be  odors  rare  and  sweet ; 
The  summer  winds  shall  lightlier  pass 
Over  the  tops  of  the  bending  grass, 
And  when  the  chilly  months  grow  red, 
The  leaves  will  rustle  above  her  bed. 

Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 

Ever  the  same,  ever  the  same  ! 
The  dusty  summer  growing  gray, 

And  the  autumn-summer  with  woods  aflame. 


91 


There  will  be  care,  but  she  will  not  know, 
There  will  be  winds  that  \vill  mdelier  blow. 
And  winter  snows  will  coldlier  beat, 
Yet  her  rest  shall  be  soft  and  sweet. 


INDIAN    SUMMER. 

THE  sun  is  warm  upon  the  withered  sod, 
And  over  all  the  landscape  brown  and  broad, 
The  glorious  hills  are  smiling  up  to  God. 

The  ancient  woods,  impatient  of  the  heat, 
Half-dropped  their  spotted  mantles  at  their  feet. 
Breathe  with  a  rustling  murmur  soft  and  sweet. 

The  air  is  filled  with  glory  like  a  mist, 

The  sunlight  falls  upon  the  earth  in  bliss 

As  through  God's  presence  drops  an  angel's  kiss. 

A-nights  the  moon  she  hath  a  golden  face, 
She  climbs  the  yellow  mist  with  dreaming  grace, 
Seeking  among  the  stars  her  royal  place. 


INDIAN    SUMMER.  93 

Away,  among  the  burly,  oaken  trees, 
Are  held  in  leash  the  winter's  harmonies ; 
Earth  hath  a  Sabbath-hour  of  prayerful  ease. 

My  soul  is  like  one  resting  from  the  wars ; 
These  shining  hours  beyond  the  prison  bars, 
It  catcheth  them  as  lakes  do  falling  stars. 


A    TRUCE    TO    HOPE. 

A  TRUCE  to  Hope,  what  hath  she  to  do  here, 

With  her  far-speeding  gear, 
With  glistening  gawds  yclad  and  tinsel  sheen  ? 

She  brings  the  flowers  spread 

On  my  last  sorrow  dead, 

And  says,  "  Be  we  thy  queen  !  " 
Begone  false  glitter !  come  another  morrow  ! 
I  have  not  halt-mourned  my  last  dead  sorrow. 

Against  the  background  of  my  late  despair 

She  showeth  large  and  fair, 
She  looks  much  promise  from  her  prophet  eye ; 

"  Dear  youth  behold  yon  star, — 

Thou  mayst  not  deem  it  far, 

'Tis  just  this  side  the  sky  ; 


A    TRUCE    TO    HOPE.  95 

An  easy  path  upwincleth  through  the  bowers, 
Bestrewn  with  wreaths   dust-laid  with  summer 
showers." 

Now  by  thy  torch,  fair  shadow,  which  doth  light 

The  dullness  of  our  night, 
An  oath,  not  here  slack-held,  to  thee  I  swear, 

Like  taper  burning  clear 

Through  purest  atmosphere, 

I  see  it  in  its  lair  ; 

But  Heaven's  grace  I  crave,  I  cannot  see 
The  path  of  flowers  up-climbing  easily. 

"  Go  to  !  thine  eyes  are  bleared !  thou  couldst 
not  ken 

Above  the-  glimpse  of  men, 

Though    God's    archangel    held    the    trump   of 
fame, — 

And,  as  each  blast  was  blown, 

Each  angel  round  the  throne 

Sang  out  thy  puissant  name  ; 
Go  to,  and  creep,  thy  weary  soul  outpouring, 
Fitter  for  earthly  thrall  than  heavenly  soaring!" 


96  A   TRUCE   TO    HOPE. 

Thou  rare  false  ministrant  to  man's  deceiving, 

Vain  errors  past  retrieving 
Are  all  the  boon  thou  ever  gavest  me  ; 

Thou  that  wouldst  make  clay  things 

Soar  upward  without  wings, 

Forestalling  destiny, 

From  great  increase  thou  ever  growest  dimmer, 
Thou  traitorous  gleam  more  fit  for  marish  glim 
mer. 

So  rail  we,  when  my  sadness  giveth  scope, 

This  shadow  of  a  Hope ; 
And  foolish  I,  who  scarce  know  earthly  ways  ; 

I,  who  am  low  and  weak, 

Who  have  few  words  to  speak, 

To  think  of  crownet  bays  ! 
'Tis  past  believing ;  were  it  past  retrieving  ; 
God  pity  my  poor  weakness  self-deceiving ! 

The  summer  of  my  intellect  is  blown 

By  winds  from  icy  zone, 
The  waste-ground  of  my  fancy  hath  no  bloom  ; 

I  see  no  upward  slope, 


A    TRUCE    TO    HOPE.  97 

Lit  by  a  shadowy  Hope, 

But  downward  to  a  tomb  ; 
One   broad,   bleak   cloud   dotli   hide  all  fairer 

shining  ; 
My  lyre's  low  notes  die  out  in  their  repining. 

It  may  be  well  to  grovel  in  the  dust, 

Who  hath  no  higher  trust ; 
The  dust  may  render  grains  of  shining  gold, 

Which,  wrought  into  a  lyre, 

And  struck  with  holy  fire^ 

May  rapturous  sounds  unfold  ; 
But  woe  is  me,  if,  in  the  searching  lowly, 
This   darkened   soul   hath   lost   the    God-light 
wholly. 

Backward  along  the  path  my  memory  shows, 

I  wander  'mid  the  snows, 
And  see  my  childhood  in  its  gay  conceit ; 

I  see  through  childish  tears, 

The  look  my  mother  wears, 

Her  smiling  sad,  yet  sweet ; 


98  A    TRUCE    TO    HOPE. 

Up  the  dim  lane  close-shrouded  from  the  heat, 
I  hear  the  billowy  swell  of  the  far  dusty  street. 

Forward  through  snow,  and  low  clouds  gloom 
ing  fast, 

A  weary  glance  I  cast ; 
Around  my  pathway  gather  mirk  and  storm  ; 

And  through  the  thickening  mist, 

Along  the  dun  waves  whist, 

The  lightnings  gather  warm : 
O,  for  a  glimpse,  across  the  clouded  sea, 
Of  some  fair  orient  morn  uprising  cheerily ! 


MOTHER    EARTH. 

MOTHER  Earth  is  dead  and  cold ! 

Bury  her  with  honor 
Six  feet  'neath  the  frozen  mold  ; 

Heap  the  sods  upon  her. 

Place  between  her  clasped  palms 
Something  growing  greenly  ; 

Meek,  as  if  in  asking  alms, 
Is  that  face  so  queenly. 

Let  the  sun  be  in  the  west, 

Clad  in  solemn  vapor, 
While  the  moon,  like  spirit  blest, 

Holds  her  silver  taper. 


100  MOTHER    EARTH. 

Let  the  planets  bear  the  pall, 
Who  so  well  can  weep  her  ; 

Fast  their  starry  tears  shall  fall 
O'er  the  mourne'd  sleeper. 

While  the  stars,  with  dimming  eyes, 
Turned  away  for  weeping, 

Through  the  night,  in  dusky  skies, 
Watch  her  moveless  sleeping, 

Come  the  ghosts  of  tearful  years, 
Hoary  with  their  sorrows, 

With  their  weary  hopes  and  fears, 
For  the  cloudy  morrows  ; 

Troops  of  hours  behind  them  stand, 
Boughs  of  cypress  holding, 

Draperies  from  Shadow-Land 
Every  form  enfolding. 

Let  the.  wailing  winter  wind 
Plain  its  pensive  ditty, 


MOTHER   EARTH.  101 

Trailing  up  a  mist  behind, 
Moist-eyed  in  its  pity. 

Let  me  look  upon  the  bier ! 

Give  me  leave  for  weeping  ! 
I  have  known  her  many  a  year, 

Bitter  harvests  reaping, 

Since  she  took  me  by  the  hand, 

With  a  kindly  smiling, 
Telling  me  of  Fairy-Land, 

Weary  hours  beguiling. 

But  the  hope  she  promised  me 

Faded  on  the  morrow, 
And  the  hours  of  boyish  glee 

Darkened  into  sorrow. 

Then  she  gave,  for  greater  boon, 
Manhood's  broader  scheming  ; 

Pleasant  trysts  beneath  the  moon, 
With  a  loved  one  dreaming. 
9 


102  MOTHER    EARTH. 

But  the  scheming  fled  away 
Ere  the  noontide  glitter, 

And  the  dreams  became  at  day 
Retrospections  bitter. 

All  the  smiles  that  should  be  mine, 
Other  faces  wore  them  ; 

Joys  that  might  have  been  divine, 
Merrier  spirits  bore  them. 

Then  she  gave  me  friends  for  cheer, 
But  each  fair  new-comer, 

Staying  with  me  half  a  year, 
Vanished  with  the  summer. 

Clouds,  for  aye,  instead  of  sun, 
Tears  instead  of  gladness  ; 

So  the  life  in  joy  begun, 
Soon  became  all  sadness. 

Fare  thee  well !  thy  heart  is  cold ! 
Mine  is  scarcely  beating  ; 


MOTHER    EARTH. 

And  I  feel  the  life-blood  bold 
To  its  cells  retreating. 

Now  close  up  the  coffin-lid — 
I  have  done  my  plaining ; 

Let  the  pallid  moon  be  hid — 
Set  the  moist  sky  raining. 

Mother  Earth  is  dead  and  cold ! 

Bury  her  with  honor, 
Six  feet  'neath  the  frozen  mold ; 

Heap  the  sods  upon  her. 


103 


I    WOO    THEE,    SPRING. 

I  woo  thee,  Spring,  and  I  wed  thee,  Spring, 

To  a  kindly-thoughted  lay, 
And  I  sing  thee,  Spring,  in  thy  blossoming, 

Through  the  lee-lang  sunny  day ! 
When  young  loves  bud  and  old  loves  bloom — 
When  the  warm  earth  bans  all  shade  of  gloom, 

And  bees  hum  summerly. 

I  woo  thine  ears  to  a  kindly  tale, 

And  what  shall  the  story  be  ? 
I  will  tell  thee  dearest  bonds  are  frail, 

And  that  stars  and  flowers  flee. 
I  will  tell  thee  a  tale  of  woful  wings 
That  rive  from  the  soul  its  precious  things, 

And  shadow  sweet  fantasy. 


I    WOO    THEE,    SPRING.  105 

I  will  tell  thee  of  some  that  have  fled  away 

Since  last  we  saw  thy  face ; 
And  some  that  are  gone  from  the  sheeny  day 

To  the  lonesome  burial  place  ; 
And  of  joys,  like  a  string  of  pearls  unstrung — 
Like  treasured  flowers  to  the  fierce  wind  flung, 

That  sleep  with  the  buried  grace. 

O,  I  woo  thee,  Spring,  and  I  wed  thee,  Spring, 

To  a  sadly-thoughted  lay, 
And  I  sing  thee,  Spring,  in  thy  blossoming, 

Through  the  lee-lang  cloudy  day  ! 
For  the  lone  day  dies  through  purple  bars — 
And  a  misty  grief  enwraps  the  stars, 

And  our  hopes  are  ashen-gray. 

But  the  flowers  bud  and  the  flowers  blow, 
And  the  mossy  streams  are  sheen, 

And  the  downy  clouds  to  the  Norland  go, 
While  the  blue  sky  laughs  between  ; 

And  the  light  without,  to  the  dark  within, 

10 

Would  seem  to  say,  "  Will  ye  up  and  win 
While  the  paths  of  life  are  green  ?  " 
9* 


106  I    WOO    THEE,    SPRING. 

But  the  outer  joy  on  the  soul's  annoy 

Looks  in  and  laughs  in  vain, 
For  the  inner  chains  of  the  spirit's  pains 

May  ne'er  be  reft  in  twain  ; 
And  the  song  that  erst  in  joy  begun 
Sinks  into  wail  ere  the  setting  sun, 

A  sad  and  deathful  strain. 

So  I  woo  thee,  Spring,  and  I  wed  thee,  Spring, 

To  a  dreary-thoughted  lay, 
And  I  sing  thee,  Spring,  in  thy  blossoming, 

Through  the  lee-lang  weary  day  ! 
Through   the   lee-lang  day   and   the   plodding 

night — 
When  no  golden  star  's  in  the  lift  alight, 

To  brighten  a  weary  way. 


A    MIDNIGHT    FANTASY. 

LIGHTING  the  lonely  taper  of  a  thought — 
Lone  and  forlorn,  solely  entranced  I  sit, 
While  night,  in  silence  deeper  dipt  for  aye, 
Hushes  to  midnight  in  a  wierdish  calm. 
I  may  not  muse  the  low  abasing  earth 
That  ever  yearn  beyond  its  sensual  coil  — 
Nor  all  the  stars,  th'  ambitious  stars  sublime, 
Sprinkling  the  liquid  blue  on  witching  nights — 
But  in  the  hazy  precincts  of  a  dream, 
Soft-pacing,  like  a  shade,  erring  I  roam. 
Go  to,  go  to,  ye  winds  with  wasting  moan, 
And  chase  the  shadows  through  the  woody  aisles, 
And  gild  the  sleep-drunk  earth   with  slender 

beam, 
Ye  stars  that  watch  the  undulating  Sea  ! 


108  A    MIDNIGHT    FANTASY. 

While  dimly  I,  with  memory's  torch  alight, 
And  fancy's  shifting  prism,  chase  my  will, 
My  own  dear  will,  incessant  through  and  through 
The  antique  halls  of  the  Past's  dusky  dome. 

And  now  the  glimmering  of  a  friendly  face 
Grows  haze-like  through  the  gloom  ;  and  now  a 

burst 

Of  hateful  passion  in  my  childish  soul ; 
And  now  a  coterie  of  friends  enring 
My  heart  with  sunshine,  lighting  up  the  dim 
For  many  a  dream-land  rood. 

But  soon  a  shape 

Comes  brightening  on  and  on  into  a  face 
Of  serious  loveliness  and  graceful  form, 
With  eyes  lit  up  in  sweet  expectancy, 
And  slanted  earthward  so  to  veil  their  joy  : — 
My  sister  at  her  bridal,  know  't  is  she ! 

And  then  again,  drooped  as  with  hidden  woe, 
As  one  doth  bide  a  threatened  stormy  shock, 
And,  trembling  ever,  yet  affirmed  and  strong, 
Doth  linger  till  its  coming  ;  her  I  see, 


A    MIDNIGHT    FANTASY.  109 

Clinging  with  tendrils  of  enhanced  love 

To  one  pale  image  ever  at  her  side 

Until  the  cloud  shall  drop  its  deathly  store. 

A  rainy  burial  on  a  sullen  day, 

When  all  the  heaven  showers  its  hoarded  gloom, 

Melts  in  and  out  the  vision  as  I  dream, 

And  the  wild  strangeness  of  the  pale  farewell — 

And  scattered  sobs  unclosing  all  the  heart — 

Blend  darkly  with  the  varying  of  my  thought ; 

Till  the  starred  midnight  and  the  homeless  wind 

o 

Thrill  in  upon  the  sense  with  light  and  sound, 
Bringing  me  back  from  visions  unto  tears. 


FRAGMENT.  — A    PICTURE. 

CALM   was   the   wave ;    such    stillness    up   in 

Heaven 

Heralds  the  voicefulness  of  Deity, — 
Or  such,  on  earth,  o'erstoops  a  placid  mere, 
Mountained  all  round,  and  sentineled  of  woods, 
And  citadeled  of  tufted  islets  green. 
A  barque  lay  on  the  deep  ;  and  from  the  shore 
Fled  back  rude-climbing  slopes,  high-terminate 
In  snow  and  clustering  cloud,  and  the  hills  stared 
With  a  dry  burning  smile  up  zenith-ward, 
Into  the  broad  blue  quiet  of  the  sky : 
Quiet  the  sea-kissed  shore — noiseless  the  hills — 
All  soothed  the  Titan  pulses  of  the  deep — 
And  the  huge-breathing  winds  were  caverned  all, 


FRAGMENT. A    PICTURE.  Ill 

Moveless,  and  murmurless,  as  somewhere  near 
Some  god  were  chambered,  pillowed  in  sweet 

rest. 

A  barque  was  on  the  deep  ;  and  some  few  men, 
Plain-garbed,  and  bronzed  by  life-expending  toil, 
Looked  steadily  down  into  the  unwinking  main, 
And  saw  themselves  look  up  —  and  nothing 

more. 


A    POET'S    THOUGHT. 

A  THOUGHT  that  lay  anear  a  Poet's  heart, 

Found  utterance  into  this  cloudy  world, 

And  stirred  some  souls  with  rapture.    This  poor 

bard, 
Whose  home  was  where  the  rugged  mountains 

stoop 
Their  foreheads  o'er   small  streams  that  plash 

their  feet, 

Sang  a  sweet  note  that  through  a  palace  stole, 
Fluttering  a  queen's  proud  breast  until  she  wept. 
For  the  same  God  doth  deftly  tune  the  strings 
Of  all  men's  souls  to  one  melodious  strain, 
And  Nature  runs  one  silver  chord  through  all, 
Which,  sadly  touched,  gives  each  a  tearful  thrill. 


TO    D.  S. 

THE  violets  with  tlieir  gentle  eyes 
Blow  thick  on  marsh  and  meadow, 

The  brook  in  silver  fretfulness 

Trails  on  through  sun  and  shadow. 

The  river  with  a  lesser  din 

Down  through  the  lone  pass  urges, 
The  birch  disports  her  tender  green, 

Far  up  the  mountain  gorges. 

The  fields  with  flocks  and  kine  besprent, 
Each  day  are  growing  greener, 

Each  morn  the  sky  for  wonderment 
Seems  bluer  and  serener. 
10 


114  TO    1).  8. 

With  light  and  shade,  with  shower  and  sun, 

Blithe  go  the  winsome  hours, 
And  allegoric  Hope  and  Mirth, 

Glide  by  with  wreath  of  flowers. 

I  dare  not,  in  my  folly,  think 

Another  season  better 
Than  these  broad,  bright,  sunshiny  days, 

For  converse  or  for  letter. 

The  first  the  ungentle  Fates  forbid, 

Who  care  not  for  my  sorrow, 
Yet  leave  the  last  for  solace  dear, 

And  hopes  beyond  to-morrow. 

So  now,  with  lines  of  pleasant  rhyme, 

And  words  of  easy  measure, 
I  think  this  lightsome  task  assumed 

No  task,  but  only  pleasure. 

What  though  steep  mountains  intervene, 
Deep  vales  by  Spring  made  brighter, 


TO    D.  S.  115 

Heart  links  to  heart  through  endless  space, 
Sorrow  makes  sorrow  lighter. 

My  native  hills  are  lovely  hills, 

There  are  not  many  fairer  ; 
Albeit  of  their  fruitfulness 

Fond  Nature  hath  been  sparer. 

Still  does  my  boyhood  memory  spread 

A  golden  haze  upon  them, 
My  manhood  still  in  sunset  sees 

Pearl-gated  heavens  beyond  them. 

Thy  hills  have  'neath  the  fruitful  sun, 

More  grain  and  less  of  beauty, 
And  they  are  blended  in  thy  heart 

With  thoughts  of  love  and  duty. 

There  first  thou  heardst  those  childish  tones 
That  eased  thine  hour  of  labor, 

Across  the  corn-field  and  the  slopes, 
Sweeter  than  song  or  tabor. 


116  TO    D.  S. 

There  still  thou  hast  their  holy  cheer, 
When  twilight  shadows  gather, 

The  noisy  prattle  at  thy  knee 
From  lips  that  call  thee — father. 

When  last  I  saw  thee,  August  suns 
Above  the  hills  were  burning, 

The  garden  vines  and  corn-blades,  all 
To  ghostly  yellow  turning  ; 

The  forest  felt  them  at  the  root, 
The  very  leaves  were  fading, — 

The  earth  had  vastly  too  much  sun, 
And  very  scanty  shading. 

The  sober  Fall  came  hastening  on, 
The  drowsy  nights  grew  longer ; 

The  wild- wood  songster  gathered  heart, 
The  shrill-voiced  quail  piped  stronger. 

But  me,  the  while,  far  other  scenes, 
And  other  friends  were  greeting  ; 


TO    D.  S.  117 

Yet  memory  of  the  parting  chilled 
The  home-bred  joys  of  meeting. 

Then  came  the  Winter  dark  and  drear: 
The  snows  piled  high  and  higher; 

I  watched  across  the  glaring  drifts 
The  village  vane  and  spire. 

I  read  in  long,  close-curtained  eyes, 
The  rhymes  we  conned  together, 

And  longed  for  creeks,  and  beechen  green, 
And  blue  and  cloudless  weather. 

I  thought  of  calmest  skies  that  saw 

Our  rapt  Shaksperian  reading, 
Of  Portia  and  the  hateful  Jew, 

And  Desdemona  pleading. 

But  now  the  earth  is  all  a-blush 

With  apple  blooms  the  fairest : 
From  treasured  beauties,  Nature  draws 

The  newest  and  the  rarest ; 
10* 


118  TO    D.  S. 

She  scatters  them  with  open  palm, 
Nor  stint  nor  measure  knowing  ; 

She  starts  the  fountain  in  the  wood ; 
She  sets  the  balm- wind  blowing ; 

She  trails  in  gladness  to  the  sea 

The  silver-shining  river ; 
She  fills  the  heart  with  holiest  joy, — 

O,  might  it  last  forever ! 

But,  of  Spring  lights  and  Winter  shades, 
I  must  have  done  my  prosing : 

This  golden  day  hath  come  to  end ; 
'Tis  time  that  /  were  closing ; 

For  at  this  purple  twilight  time, 
Star-dreaming  would  be  better, 

Than  this  poor  strife  in  endless  rhyme, 
To  make  your  kindness  debtor. 

And  if  in  busy  days,  for  this 
You  find  an  hour  of  leisure, 


TO    D.  S. 


119 


Let  me  in  fancy  see  you  smile — 
A  smile  of  friendly  pleasure. 

Yet  think  not  of  the  poet-craft, — 
Poor  skill  not  worth  discerning, — 

But  of  the  love  informing  all, 
The  friendship  ever  burning. 


PRAISE    AND    DISPRAISE. 

I  HEARD  one  speaking  in  a  poet's  praise, 

And  one  speak  in  his  blame ; 
Greening  and  withering  the  circling  hays, 

The  crownets  of  his  fame. 

One  said,  "  What  giveth  he  to  quench  our  thirst  ? 

The  desert's  fair  deceit, 
The  palmy  mirage,  for  the  founts  that  hurst 

Life-giving,  at  our  feet ; 

"  Icy  abstractions  for  hearts  beating  light, 

And  glittering  cold  and  far, 
The  pole-star  of  the  bitter  northern  night 

For  Venus'  kindlier  star." 


PRAISE    AND    DISPRAISE.  121 

And  with  cold  features  quiet  all  the  while, 

Looking  at  heaven  above, — 
"'  What  of  an  iceburg  with  its  freezing  smile  ? 

The  tropics  are  for  love." 

"  Yet,"  said  the  other,  "  Gleaming  cold  and  far, 

But  ever,  ever  true, 
Shines  the  pure  North  star,  true  as  angels  are, 

Loving  beyond  the  blue  : 

"  How    beams    the    face    of  Nature  when  he 
speaks ! 

How  tower  the  mountains  high ! 
Sun-flooded  daily  to  their  golden  peaks, 

Which  press  against  the  sky  ; 

"  How  smile  the  meadows ;   past  them,  broad 
and  dark, — 

On  to  the  sounding  sea, 
Sweep  the  full  rivers  ;    round  them  do  but  hark 

The  wild-wood  minstrelsy. 

u  The  gorgeous  Orient !  ah,  the  treacherous  East ! 
The  bow-string  for  its  loves, 


122  PRAISE    AND    DISPRAISE. 

Houris  unto  their  heavens  ;  lust's  high-priest 
'Mid  arabesques  and  doves. 

"  But  Northern  climes  for  pure  and  temperate 


For  passions  without  heat  : 
The  shady  Summer  with  its  woody  noise  ; 
The  Autumn  rich  and  sweet  ; 

"  The  marble  Winter  with  long  mooned  nights 

Above  a  world  of  snows  ; 
Without,  cold-smiling;  but  within,  delights, 

Calm  pleasure,  deep  repose." 

"  Nature  is  with  us  always,"  answered  he, 

'  '  Her  Winter  nights  so  mute, 
Her  nut-brown  Autumns,   when,  from  vine  and 
tree, 

Hangs  the  rare,  ripened  fruit. 

"  But  cold  before  us,  in  the  lifeless  rhyme, 

Lie  hill,  and  stream,  and  lake,  — 
Faint  shadows,  like  a  dusky  vesper  time, 

With  naught  the  hush  to  break. 


PRAISE    AND    DISPRAISE.  123 

"  He  who  speaks  passion,  tells  the  life  of  man, 

His  loves,  his  hates,  his  fears, 
The  doubtful  future  of  his  little  span, 

His  memory  of  the  years." 

"  Yet,"  said  the  other,  calmly  speaking  on, 

"  His  task  is  great  and  high  : 
To  tell  the  glory  of  the  stars  and  sun, 

The  azure  of  the  sky  ; 

"  To  paint  the  flowers  and  all  the  winding  streams, 

<|B 

The  far-laid  fields  at  rest, 
The  season  bursting  'neath  the  sunny  beams, 
And  that  with  fruitage  blest. 

"  'Tis  God  that  shades  the  hills  and  woods  in  leaf, 

And  man  with  lower  art, 
But  tells,  on  canvas,  or  in  verses  brief, 

Their  lessons  to  the  heart ; 

"  And  if,  deep-skilled,  he  does  his  labor  well, 

'Tis  God's  own  guiding  hand, 
Gilding  the  mountain  mists  that  shrink  and  swell, 

The  seas  curved  toward  the  strand.  " 


MAY    NOON. 

THE  farmer  tireth  of  his  half-day  toil, 

He  pauseth  at  the  plough, 
He  gazeth  o'er  the  furrow-lined  soil, 

Brown  hand  above  his  brow. 

He  hears,  like  winds  lone-muffled  'mong  the  hills, 

The  lazy  river  run  ; 
From  shade  of  covert  woods  the  eager  rills 

Bound  forth  into  the  sun. 

The  clustered  clouds  of  snowy  apple-blooms, 

Scarce  shivered  by  a  breeze, 
With  odor  faint,  like  flowers  in  feverish  rooms, 

Fall,  flake  by  flake,  in  peace. 


MAY    NOON.  125 

In  neighboring  fields  with  wearisome  accord, 
Moist  brows  and  sun-burnt  hands, 

The  brothers  of  his  toil  upon  the  sward 
Unloose  the  irksome  bands. 

Straight  through  scant  foliage  of  the  lone  field- 
oak, 

The  broad  sun  sheds  its  rays  ; 
Wreath  above  wreath  the  towering  cottage  smoke 

Curls  up  from  hearths  ablaze. 

And  savory  scents  go  forth  upon  the  air, 
From  generous  doors  swung  back, 

While  stout  old  dames  and  gentler  girls  prepare 
The  cheer  which  doth  not  lack. 

By  threadlike  paths  which  radiate  afield 

The  fasting  bands  come  in  ; 
And  list !  the  house-fly  round  the  sweets  unsealed 

Maketh  a  hungry  din. 

'  T  is  labor's  ebb  ;  a  hush  of  gentle  joy, 
For  man,  and  beast,  and  bird  ; 
11 


126  MAY    NOON. 

The  quavering  songster  ceases  its  employ ; 
The  aspen  is  not  stirred. 

But  Nature  hath  no  pause ;  she  toileth  still ; 

Above  the  last-year  leaves 
Thrusts  the  lithe  germ,  and  o'er  the  terraced  hill 

A  fresher  carpet  weaves. 

From  many  veins  she  sends  her  gathered  streams 

To  the  huge-billowed  main, 
Then  through  the  air,  impalpable  as  dreams, 

She  calls  them  back  again. 

She  shakes  the  dew  from  her  ambrosial  locks, 

She  pours  adown  the  steep 
The  thundering  waters  ;  in  her  palm,  she  rocks 

The  flower-throned  bee  to  sleep. 

Smile  in  the  tempest,  faint  and  fragile  man, 

And  tremble  in  the  calm  ! 
God  plainest  shows  what  great  Jehovah  can, 

In  these  fair  days  of  balm. 


SEPTEMBER. 

MONTH  of  all  months  most  glorious, 
Unto  an  earth  tired  of  the  dust  and  heat, 
And  the  scorched  path  of  Sirius'  unshod  feet, — 
I  welcome  thee  !    Surely  from  regions  blest 
Thou  comest  hither :  for  thy  mellow  smile 
Is  half  angelic,  and  thine  eyes  are  deep 
As  Love's  own  orbs  when  running  o'er  with  sleep, 
Or  dreaming  Fancy's  when  she  would  beguile. 
Thy  days  are  days  fit  for  all  heavenward  dreams, 
Thine  eves  for  wandering  with  the  friends  we 

love  ; 
Thy  midnights  for  all  strange,  weird  thoughts 

that  rove 

And  lose  themselves  far  down  eternity,  thy  gleams 
Of  sunshine,  moonshine,  all  are  bright  and  fair, 
Thy  breath  as  fragrant  as  Heaven's  own  winds 

are. 


DECEMBER. 

THE  bleak  December,  blowing  keen, 

Hath  frosted  all  the  land, 
And  whitened  all  the  swaying  pines 

That  overlook  the  strand. 
The  sun  doth  drop  with  stranger  glare 

Adown  the  chilly  West, 
And  drear  the  twilight  cometh  on, 

The  star-gems  in  her  breast. 

The  shining  snow  hath  'drifted  well, 
Up  hill  and  down  the  vale, 

And  maketh  all  the  winter  night 
With  moonlight  ghostly  pale  ; 


DECEMBER.  129 

And  in  the  night,  the  moon  doth  cast 

Tree-shadows  011  the  floor, 
And  in  the  night  the  rattling  blast 

Still  biteth  more  and  more  : 

The  roaring  blast  that  bloweth  high 

Above  the  palace  dome, 
The  whistling  blast  that  creepeth  low 

In  to  the  beggar's  home, 
The  merry  wind  that  langheth  loud 

Outside  the  rich  man's  door, 
The  doleful  wind  that  pipeth  scorn 

Among  the  frozen  poor. 

Ye  proud  ones,  gird  the  fire-light  in, 

And  shut  the  frost-winds  out, 
And  bandy  with  your  choicest  wit 

The  pointless  jest  about ; 
And  wrap  your  souls  in  silken  folds, 

And  sit  in  gilded  ease, 
And  warm  your  human  love  with  wine 

Blown  hither  on  the  seas. 
11* 


130  DECEMBER. 

It  may  be  well :  God  knowetli  all ! 

One  laughs,  and  one  may  weep  ! 
He  will  not  let  the  haughty  dame 

Be  chilly  in  her  sleep ; 
But  o'er  the  scanty  coverlet 

The  drift  creeps  on  and  on, 
And  faces  whiter  than  the  drift 

See  not  the  rising  sun. 


A    WINTER    BALLAD. 

OLD  Winter  is  howling  at  every  crack — 

He  comes  with  a  sorrowful  train ; 

The  poor  man  hath  never  a  coat  to  his  back, 

But  the  rich  rolls  on  in  splendor's  track, 

And  his  barns  burst  out  with  grain. 

Day  in  and  day  out 

It  is  ever  the  same  ; 

The  poor  may  die, 

But  who  is  to  blame ! 

Oh !  cold  is  the  wind,  and  the  snow  doth  fall, 
'Tis  a  piercing  blast  I  ween : 
The  bright  fires  blaze  in  each  splendid  hall, 
But  the  snow  drives  in  through  the  riven  wall,- 
From  the  blast  there  is  no  screen. 


132 


A    WINTER    BALLAD. 


Alas,  Alas ! 

They  will  freeze  I  fear ! 
There  is  death  in  the  blast — 
A  dirge  I  hear. 

A  lady  sings  to  her  harp  a  lay, — 
A  sweeter  I  never  heard  : 
A  baby  is  moaning  its  life  away, — 
The  snow  will  its  shroud  be  ere  dawn  of  day- 
Its  mother  says  never  a  word. 
Oh  the  home  of  the  rich 
Is  the  home  of  sloth  ; 
The  babe  and  the  lady, — 
God  made  them  both. 

Ah  well-a-day !  'tis  a  dolorous  tale 

The  angel  of  death  will  tell ! 

And  the  snowy  winds  they  wildly  wail 

O'er  the  roofless  cot  where  the  famished  quail, 

While  the  pampered  are  sleeping  well. 

The  lady  laughs, 

But  the  babe  may  cry  : 


A    WINTER    BALLAD.  133 

The  pampered  live, 
While  the  famished  die. 

The  morn  hath  come,  and  the  blast  hath  fled  ; 

The  tempest  is  in  its  tomb. 

Oh  peace  to  the  snowy-shrouded  dead, 

And  no  curse  light  down   on  the  rich  man's 

head, 

And  no  Avant  bring  his  household  gloom. 
Ah,  well-a-day ! 
God  ruleth  all ! 
The  peasant's  cot, 
And  the  richest  hall. 


A    HOME    SONG. 

I  SING  thee  a  song  of  home, 

Faint  heart  that  will  not  rest  ; 
A  rhyme  of  the  homely  roof, 

Afar  from  the  broader  West ; 
Where  the  shade-trees  stoop  and  swing, 

From  the  morn  to  the  even-fall ; 
With  a  low,  sad  voice  'neath  the  vesper-star, 

"  Come  home  !  come  home  !  "  they  call. 

"Where  a  sister's  tomb  is  green, 

On  the  slope  of  the  grave-yard  hill ; — 

Who  has  had  one  quiet  year  I  ween, 
One  year  that  has  known  no  ill. 


A    HOME    SONG.  135 

Wouldst  thou  see  the  sunshine  fall, 

And  the  tall  lush  grasses  grow, 
Above  the  one  who  cherished  thee 

When  life  had  less  of  woe  ?  " 

"  Peace  !  peace  !  "  the  heart  replies, — 

"  Sun  shines  and  grass  grows  green  ; 
I  am  not  faint  from  life's  fierce  heat, 

But  the  thoughts  of  what  hath  been. 
Then  soothe  if  thou  canst  not  heal ! 

Speak  not  of  the  days  of  yore  ! 
There  is  shadow  here,  there  is  shadow  there  ; 

Home  once,  but  home  no  more." 

"  There  a  mother's  prayer  is  heard, 

And  a  sister  longs  for  thee ; 
A  brother's  loving  hand  is  given, — 

A  father  asks  for  me. 
Love  hath  not  lost  its  heat, 

Fond  eyes  have  not  grown  dim — 
Friends  that  have  cherished  think  not  less, 

But  still  they  ask  for  c 


136  A    HOME    SONG. 

"  The  fresh  wood-walks  wind  far 

Along  the  breezy  hills  ; 
'Mid  cool  haunts  shut  from  noon-day  sun, 

By  banks  of  reedy  rills. 
Walks  that  have  pleased  thee  well, 

When  Spring  was  on  the  wane — 
With  friends  whose  pleasant  tones 

Thou  mayst  not  hear  again." 

"  Ah,  well,  thou  pleadest  well !  " 

The  heart  doth  make  reply  ; 
"  I  see  the  hearth-light  gleam, 

I  see  the  beaming  eye ; 
Back  where  the  roof-tree  sways, 

Through  summer  night  and  day  ; 
Back  to  the  woody  walks  and  ways, 

Too  long,  too  long,  away." 


CHANGED. 

AH,  you  do  not  love  me  now, 
As  you  loved  me  yesterday  ; 

Love  hath  got  a  frowning  brow, 
And  your  fancies  go  astray. 

When  you  loved  me  yesterday, 
All  the  winds  were  tuning  sweet  ; 

Moaning  now  they  sigh  away, 
With  a  plaining  most  unmeet. 

AVhen  you  spake  me  fair  and  free 
At  our  feet  the  sea  did  seem — 

Stretching  on  unceasingly — 
Sleeping  in  a  placid  dream. 
12 


138  CHANGED. 

And  a  tree  that  stood  apart 

Thrilled  with  music  o'er  and  o'er, 

From  a  bird  whose  happy  heart 
Streamed  with  rapture  evermore. 

Now,  the  sunshine  droppeth  in 
On  my  vision  dim  and  gray, 

And  the  blue  sea  cannot  win 

One  sweet  dream  the  livelong  day. 

Now,  the  winds  are  sick  at  heart, 
So  they  may  not  blithely  sing, 

And  the  lone  tree  stands  apart, 
For  the  bird  hath  taken  wing. 

Chance  and  change  are  all  the  creed 
Which  the  mind  will  hold  at  last ; 

True  in  word,  but  false  in  deed, 
Is  the  faith  that  bindeth  fast. 

But  to-day  is  as  the  yore  : 

Dames  will  love  and  men  forget — 


CHANGED.  139 

Hope  must  ever  waste  its  store — 
Brightest  eyes  are  soonest  wet. 

Love  will  dote  and  hearts  will  break — 

'T  is  among  the  human  woes  ; 
Eyes  must  longest  keep  awake, 

Longing  most  for  deep  repose. 

Hearts  are  made  of  brittle  stuff — 
Eyes  will  dim  with  time  and  tears — 

Shortest  life  has  grief  enough, 
Fretting  out  its  lease  of  years. 

But  I  would  not  hedge  thee  in  ! 

Go,  as  free  as  any  wind  ! 
Word  of  mine  shall  never  win 

Thee  to  cast  a  look  behind. 

See  if  other  hearts  will  rend, 
Since  thy  fancy  needeth  twain  ! 

See  if  other  eyes  will  send 

Tears  as  thick  as  autumn  rain. 


140 


CHANGED. 


Go  !  and  if  I  keep  a  thought, 
'T  is  the  nature  of  the  mind ; 

Memory  of  the  dearly  bought 
Evermore  will  stay  behind. 

But  to-day  is  as  the  yore : 

Dames  will  love,  and  men  forget ; 
All  the  story  told  before, 

Myriad  tongues  shall  tell  it  yet. 

All  the  pulses  throb  with  pain, 

Through  the  weary,  lonesome  years  ; 

Souls  were  made  for  woful  stain, 
Hearts  to  ache,  and  eyes  for  tears. 


LOVE. 

LOVE  is  a  text  from  which  a  god  might  preach 
Truths  too  sublime  for  manhood's  utterance. 
Love  is  a  holy  shield  from  which  might  glance 
A  vile  world's  venomed  arrows.      This  to  teach 
Were  a  high  mission.     But  the  world  has  lost 
One  of  its  senses  five,  and  heareth  not 
Seraphic  echoes  ;  while,  to  scheme,  and  plot, 
And  build  high  golden  altars,  this  at  most 
Is  its  endeavor.     Soft  the  summer  wind 
Breathes  over  them  its  Benedicite : 
It  wakes  no  heart-throb,  while  most  freezingly, 
They  bow,  and  clasp  the  hand  of  many  a  friend, 
Then  pass  to  others.     Father,  when  will  flow 
Millennial  love  and  joy,  and  set  the  earth  aglow  ? 


A    VALEDICTION. 

I  LEAVE  my  dream  undreamed;    my   stringed 

pearls — 
Sweet  boyish   hopes   which   glimmered  on  my 

dawn — 

Strown  on  the  level  dark  that  floods  my  past ; 
And  with  my  foot  upon  the  threshold-stone — 
The  ante-chamber  of  the  outer  world — 
Tutor  my  trembling  tongue  to  say,  Farewell. 
Farewell !  and  yet  I  linger  on  the  word, 
The  while  my  eyes  are  misty,  and  my  voice, 
Like  a  strange  wind-harp  struck  by  ruder  air, 
Doth  pine  complainingly,  and  while  my  ear 
Doth  catch  the  tumult  of  the  life  to-be 
I  linger  on  the  word,  and  grasp  thy  hand, 
Then  turn  me  to  my  barque  and  launch  away  : 
Thou  back  to  meadow  lands  well  known,  well 

trod, — 


A    VALEDICTION.  143 

I  to  the  pathless,  seething,  desert  sea, 
Without  a  guide,  alone — alone  —  alone. 

I  leave  my  dream  undreamed,  my  songs  unsung ! 
My  olden  paths  will  grow  an  unworn  sward ; 
The  unpruned  vines  will  moulder  on  the  wall ; 
The  creeping  brook  will  lisp  to  other  ears  ; 
And  all  the  long,  flush,  Indian  summer  days, 
With  a  broad  glory  o'er  the  browning  woods, 
Will  dream,  and  dream,  and  I  not  ever  see 
Their  beauty  red  and  golden.     Wo  is  me  ! 
My  Shakspeare,  which  I  left  with  leaf  turned 

down 

At  un queened  Katharine  dreaming,  will  be  turned 
By  other,  careless  hands,  and  I  away  ; 
And  many  summer  eves  the  crescent  moon 
Will  slowly  drop  behind  the  ranged  hills 
Past  Hesper  glowing,  and  the  sunset  sheen, 
Fading  from  gold  to  purple,  will  die  out 
Between  the  two  brown  peaks  which  childhood 

made 

The  gateway  of  a  promised  heaven  beyond, 
Fit  for  the  dreaming  of  a  poet-boy, 
As  I  were  not,  as  I  had  never  been. 


144  A    VALEDICTION. 

I  go  to  other  hearts,  whose  portals  ope 
Never  to  alien  wanderers  ;  whose  touch 
Gives  ne'er  emotion  like  a  touch  of  thine  ; 
Whose  voice  comes  like  the  first  bleak  winter  wind 
Unbosoming  a  snow-fall ;  and  whose  eye 
Is  like  an  ice-gleam  in  the  Arctic  noon : 
The  wide  world  widens  on  my  anxious  sight, 
And  the  sweet  wind  that  drifted  boyhood's  bark ; 
Freshens  into  a  gale,  and  sternly  chides 
My  dallying  on  the  strand.     Once  more,  Fare 
well  ! 

I  leave  my  dream  undreamed  I    My  song  is  sung ! 
All  intricate  ways  are  mine, — all  adverse  fate, — 
All  the  rude  swelling  of  the  hasty  sea. 
Thine  the  smooth  swarded,  dustless,  shaded  way 
That  up  by  graded  terraces  and  lawns, 
Slopes  to  the  level  of  the  evening  star, 
Whence  broadens  out  thy  yellow  vesper-land, 
Golden  with  harvest  which  thyself  shall  garner 
In  the  near  storehouse  of  thine  endless  rest, 

ToTT^V 

OF  TH£ 

UNIVER 

OF 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES  II      YB      I  360O 


